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Letters from Grandpa 


BY 

HON. S. KIRKPATRICK ✓ 

Member of House of Representatives U. S. 

Sixth District , Iowa 



PRESS OF 

The Sudwarth Company 


WASHINGTON 


1913 

2j 


Vz n 




FE8 13 1914 


©Cl. A3 6 19 7 7 


u 

(L. 


TO 


SANFORD, NELLIE, AND JOHN 


This book is gratefully dedicated 
by their 


GRANDPA 


[Any of the children who read this 
book and who desire to write a letter 
to “Grandpa,” may address him — 

S. KIRKPATRICK, 

Ottumwa, Iowa.] 




It was a happy idea which induced Congressman 
Kirkpatrick, of Iowa, to publish in book form his delightful 
epistles to his grandchildren under the title of “Letters 
from Grandpa.” The title itself was an inspiration. The 
grandfather in communion with, or in the company of his 
grandchildren is always pleasant to look upon. 

In the olden time men prominent in literature fre- 
quently wrote elaborate letters, polished them with much 
labor, garnished them with many rhetorical flourishes, 
classical allusions and abundant quotations — which letters 
were intended for publication then or thereafter. Among 
these were Alexander Pope, Lord Byron, Dean Swift, 
Horace Walpole and other worthies. Their letters were 
really essays, except Byron’s. His were sure enough 
letters, in which he poured out his loves, hatreds, and 
opinions generally. Congressman Kirkpatrick’s letters 
are the real thing — chatty, picturesque, interesting to the 
children to whom they were written, intended to interest 
them. They were written without any idea of publication, 
therefore natural and pleasing. They will long survive 
him and will serve to preserve his name and fame. His 
choice of the Christmas season for publication was emi- 
nently fitting — for above all else the Christmas season is 
Children’s season. 


Speaker, House of Representatives, U . S. 



INTRODUCTORY. 


My highest ambition is to acquire a sufficient 
amount of means to build , endow , maintain , and 
perpetuate a home for one hundred fatherless 
and motherless children. 

When I shall have accomplished this result , 
I will feel that my mission in this life has ended. 
I am, therefore, presenting LETTERS FROM 
GRANDPA because I am a grandfather. 

Those of us, who have put away childish 
things, once spoke, talked and understood as 
children, hence the necessity of introducing 
subjects such as will interest every tiny feather 
plucked from the wing of love and dropped in 
the lap of sacred motherhood. 


Letter No. 1. 


Southland. 

Tzvo Little Boys and One Small Girl: 

f AM going to tell you something about our new 
dog. We call him new, because he is not old. I 
expect forty days would cover all the time he has 
lived. So far he has had no birthday. I once heard of a 
great dog party in a great city. There were one hundred 
and twenty dogs present, and the dinner cost somebody 
four dollars for each little doggie, and while this dinner 
was going on on the inside there was a number of Grand- 
children in the street crying for bread. 

I don’t know much about dog parties, still I remember 
when your Mama lived at home, she never gave any more 
birthday parties after she was twenty-six years old. 

You know, Children, that dogs, like people, are not all 
alike. They are not all the same size or same shape or 
same color. 

Our dog looks like a little bear, only he is not a bear. 
He is about the color of a ginger cake, but he is not a 
ginger cake ; in the face he looks a little like a colored boy. 
Now if I thought he was a little darkie, I would cut his 
tail off right behind his ears, and then, I suppose, he 
would go to the “Happy Land of Canine.” 

Our dog is about four inches long, six inches wide; 
his tail is fully seven inches long and leans over against 
his back. 

Our dog is a good little boy when allowed to do as he 
pleases, except when he is shut up in the dog house, and 


8 


S. Kirkpatrick 


then he talks all kinds of dog talk ; but I don’t understand 
a word he says. When he barks I think he is laughing, 
and when he wags his tail, then he is trying to tell that 
he is hungry. 

I know some Grandchildren that always cry when they 
want something to eat. Our dog is not as large as a lion, 
still, he is bigger than a small cat. We call him all kinds 
of pet names; so one day Grandma said we must call 
him some real sure name, and she named him Disc. At 
first I did not like the name; but she said she got the 
“Record” from our new graphophone, and, I suppose, 
now, that Disc will be in tune as long as the “Record” 
lasts. Mr. Benson says Disc is one-half Shepherd, but 
could not say what the other half was, so I just made up 
my mind that the other half was dog. 

Our dog came sixty miles in a car ; was in the express 
office all night without a bite of anything to eat, not even 
a drink of cold water. The express man said the dog 
cried all night, and while little doggie was crying, the 
man was acting doggedly mean, as he was still growling 
the next morning. 

I asked him how he would like to be shut up in an 
empty box all night, and nothing to eat or drink. I hope 
every good little bow in the world has a good dog. I 
would rather all my .Grandchildren would play with good 
dogs than bad boys. 

Now, when your Papa writes, have him tell all about 
your dog, as I am writing letters to a great many Grand- 
children, and I want to tell them all about your dog. 

Grandpa. 


“ Letters From Grandpa ” 


9 


Letter No. 2. 


Southland. 

Two Little Dots and One Small Dot: 

APA’S LETTER came this morning. I was 
JlI disappointed in his dog story. I don’t suppose 
Hr he had a dog when he was a boy, as he had 
nothing to say about ever having been rabbit hunting 
when he was young; he surely was a boy, even if it was 
a long time ago. 

If he ever went rabbit hunting he ought to remember 
all about it. Your Papa could not have been a very big 
boy or very old when he was born, else he would know 
more about dogs, or perhaps, he lived in one of the big 
towns, about which I am going to write you, sometime, 
where dogs were not allowed to stay. 

Now, there are about as many little girls in the world 
as there are little boys, at any rate a good little girl is 
better than a half dozen bad boys. I am going to write 
something about dolls. I do not know how many little 
dollies there are in the world, but there are a great many. 
I don’t know all about how dolls are made, still I do 
know that they are made, and made mostly for children. 
Of course, I mean little girls, and I have never met a little 
girl in all this great big round world but who at some time 
or other had a little dollie. I wish I could tell you about 


10 


S. Kirkpatrick 


all the different kind of dolls I have seen, and there are 
so many pretty names for dolls. Little girls have about 
as many names for dollies as boys have names for their 
dogs. You should never give a doll more than one name. 
Dolls do not know much about names, anyhow, even a 
short name will in most cases last as long as a dollie does. 

I must tell you about a doll party that your Mama gave 
when she was a little girl. A great many invitations were 
sent out; in fact, every little girl in the village was 
invited, and every little girl came bringing with her one 
or more dolls. A doll supper was prepared, and, 
although nearly every dollie came with a new bib or 
apron of some kind on, not a dollie opened its mouth, and 
I am going to let you guess who ate the nuts and figs and 
raisins and other good things. At this doll party, there 
were many little childish games played, and after supper 
the dolls were arranged for some kind of services, so 
they finally agreed to have a doll meeting, and the dollies 
were seated in chairs, a pulpit was put in shape, made up 
of some paper boxes ; but who would preach ? It did not 
seem well to have a lady doll for a preacher, so a little 
boy who chanced to happen in, bethought himself that he 
could supply the needed minister. So, he presented the 
party the use of his Jumping Jack. “This,” said one little 
girl, “will be just the thing,” and they all shouted, “That’s 
all right;” but the Jumping Jack would neither stand up 
nor lay down, would not sit cross-legged nor look sad ; so 
after several vain efforts on the part of the children to 
have a church meeting for their dolls, one little girl 
thoughtfully said : “Girls, this awkward Jack will not do 


“ Letters From Grandpa ” 


11 


for a preacher for our little dollies, but I’ll tell you what 
we can do — we can make an Evangelist out of him.” 

I don’t know yet what I am going to write about next 
time, as much will depend on how Grandma’s corns are 
getting along, and whether she has good luck with her 
mince pies. 

Grandpa. 



% 


12 


S. Kirkpatrick 


Letter No. 3. 


Southland. 

W ell. Grandchildren : 

f HAVE so many things to write about, that I hardly 
know where to commence. I will first tell you 
about some wicked boys, that came into' our yard 
today and robbed a bird’s nest of their little sparrows, 
and then gave these little birds to some pet eagles to eat 
alive. These bad boys are the Grandchildren of some- 
body, and their Grandpa and Grandma will never hear 
about it; but there is an Eye that never sleeps, and some 
day these wicked boys will be punished as they should be. 
It is bad enough to rob a little bird of her eggs, but will 
you think for a moment, how cruel it would be to take 
from her the little birds that God had given her. Think 
how sad this poor mother bird would feel on flying back 
to her nest with a big fat worm in her mouth to feed her 
little family of birdies, only to find them gone, and never 
to be allowed to see them again. How would Papa and 
Mama feel if they were to leave you alone at home some- 
time and only go down the street or lane just a little 
ways, and when they came back, found that some old 
wicked man had come along and had carried you a long 
ways off into some dark woods, or they might take you 
to a place where there is no Father or Mother, and while 


“ Letters From Grandpa ” 


13 


it is true, they might not destroy you, as in the case of 
the young sparrows being fed alive to some eagles, still 
there are some wicked people in this world who really 
steal children and keep them hid, hoping that somebody 
will pay them a whole lot of money when they return 
the stolen children. 

These wicked people sometimes steal grown people, 
and carry them far away, and will never give them up 
unless a big sum of money is paid them ; but in the case 
of the little sparrows, their poor grief stricken mother will 
never see her children again. I pray you, Dear Children, 
never forget the story of the poor mother bird’s dead 
children. Every bird’s nest is a home for some little 
bird. 

Grandpa. 



14 


S. Kirkpatrick 


Letter No. 4. 


Southland . 

One Little Girl and Two Small Boys : 

HERE are more cats at our house than children. 

Wl We gave four little tabbies away and that left us 
eleven. Now, we will have enough names to go 
round ; but there is no use in naming more than one cat, 
for when I call Tom, every cat comes, and they all have 
something to say, and no one but the old mother cat 
seems to know what they say. I believe that cats have 
visiting days, and birthday parties, for I have seen the old 
mother cat get her kittens all in a bunch, and then lick all 
her babies faces, and this, I suppose, they call getting 
ready for church or Sunday school, or a reception of some 
kind, or possibly a convention. You know that cats 
behave about as well as men; especially in a political 
meeting. 

When I was a little boy, I owned a black cat, I called 
him Tab. I used to get Tab in a dark room and rub his 
fur the wrong way, and Tab’s hair would crackle and look 
like a blaze of fire, and there were a number of cat games. 
There was “Pussy wants a comer.” In this game all the 
boys and girls of the village could join. Then there was 
“Two-cornered cat;” and cat with three corners, and 
sometimes if we could snap school long enough we would 


“ Letters From Grandpa ” 


15 


play a game called “Town ball.’' Well, we can never be 
young but once. I must tell you a riddle that my Mother 
told me over sixty years ago ; and Mother said it was an 
old one then. I have remembered it all these years, and 
I think that I have a right to tell it to my Grandchildren. 

As I was going to Saint Ives, 

I met a man with seven wives, 

And every wife had seven sacks, 

And every sack had seven cats, 

And every cat had seven kits. 

Kits, Cats, Sacks and wives, 

Now how many were going to Saint Ives? 

Some people ask, what are cats good for anyway? 
Some people can never see anything good in anything. 
If I was as queer as some people I would not care to 
live here, nor anywhere else very long. 

Everybody ought to know that cats catch and eat 
mice, and some cats will kill rats, and nobody likes mice. 
No one but Chinamen eat rats. 

Grandpa. 



16 


S. Kirkpatrick 


Letter No. 5. 

Southland. 

Dear Little Tots: 

♦fTKNOW you will be good children, but I want you 
II to try and not laugh, while I tell you about our 
chickens. We have fourteen in all, counting big 
and little, old and middle-aged. Some are spring 
chickens. We killed one and tried to eat it. Grandma 
said the chicken must have been here or somewhere else a 
long time. Old Blue, as we called her, did not come in on 
a late train. She must have been several springs old. 
Our little dog Disc had a hard time of it. It took him 
seven days to finish Old Blue, and then he rested. I 
don’t think we will commence cooking another hen like 
this one until one week before Thanksgiving. We are 
going to try and keep little Disc, just to help on aged 
chickens. 

We have thirteen chickens. There are nine hens, and 
two that are not hens, and a pair of bantams. 

Our hens are right good for getting out a lot of eggs. 
One day we got one and one day we got one more egg 
than we had hens; but I never expect to be able to tell 
how it happened. Grandma vowed and declared she 
would never have any ducks, but said she would like to 
raise some young chickens, so as to be sure of having 


Letters From Grandpa 


17 


them when quarterly conference came off. So she set 
one of her hens on a whole nest full of hen’s eggs. Mrs. 
Winthrop, our neighbor, had some ducks, so I told Mr. 
Winthrop of my plan for playing a joke on Grandma. So, 
I took out one-half of the hen’s eggs and replaced them 
with duck’s eggs. So, after about three weeks, the old 
hen seemed to know that the little chicks wanted to get 
out of their shells. So out they came, and there were 
some chickens sure enough, but there were some of the 
funniest looking wide-bill and flat-footed chickens you 
ever heard tell of. I said they were ducks, but Grandma 
would not believe it, until one day she saw them swim- 
ming in a mud puddle, and she never got in a good 
humor about it until the day before we started to camp 
meeting. 

I used to be a little boy, and had two sisters and three 
brothers, and we always wished that Easter would come 
every week. 

We used to hide the eggs, so as to> have a feast on 
Easter Sunday. One day before Easter, Mother sent 
me out after eggs. I came back and reported that I 
found a lot of hens standing around doing nothing. 
Now, I have said so much about chickens and eggs, that 
I am hungry, and if the chickens haven’t all gone into 
the ministry, I think I will have an old-fashioned potpie. 

Grandpa. 


18 


S. Kirkpatrick 


Letter No. 6. 


Southland. 

Well , Children: 

AM GOING to write something about Easter eggs 
*j| and ducks. Two little boys came into our house 
this morning and wanted to buy some Easter 
eggs — the kind that their Grandma bought of us last 
week; but we did not have the kind that suited. They 
wanted blue eggs and red eggs, and all kinds of colored 
eggs. They said that Grandma told them that our hens 
laid all kinds of colored eggs. Their sadness at the 
thought of getting no blue and red eggs was so great that 
I thought their little hearts would break and bleed. I 
would have given a dollar apiece for just two colored 
eggs, rather than to have looked into their little faces and 
said no. Then one little fellow said “Mister, will you 
sell me a hen; maybe she will lay us some red eggs.” I 
took these little men to a corner grocery and bought each 
of them the biggest stick of red-striped candy I could find. 

I drove to the country yesterday. I wish every little 
boy and girl could live in the country. There are so many 
things to see. Everything we eat and wear grows in the 
country. Nearly all of the hen’s nests are in the country, 
and nearly all the bird’s nests are there. Nearly all the 
good apples grow in the country, and it beats all how 


“Letters From Grandpa ” 


19 


much home-made fun a boy can have at his Grandpa’s 
home on a farm. Where do all the cows come from, and 
the little bossies? They all grow up in the country; and 
oh, so many flowers! I tell you children, Easter only 
comes once a year; but flowers last all Summer, and just 
keep on coming. Yesterday, we stopped at a farm house 
to keep out of the rain. Mrs. Nelson had an old mother 
duck, and ten little ducks; and she declared they would 
drown if they stayed out in the rain. So, out she went 
hunting for the ducks, and after hunting an hour she 
found old mother duck and her little ducks swimming 
in a big pond of water in a pasture near the house. The 
feathers are so thick and close on a duck that they can 
stay in the water all day and not get wet, and their feet 
are so wide that they can push themselves along through 
the water like so many little boats. 

Grandpa. 



20 


S. Kirkpatrick 


Letter No. 7. 


Southland. 


Two Little Tads and One Little Tot: 


iJ|^HERE are more Grandchildren in the United 
Ml States than all three of you could count in a whole 
year. In fact everybody has been or was a 
Grandchild at one time. Every child in the world at one 
time was Grandpa’s and Grandma’s Grandchild. It is 
just funny how many relatives we have. There are our 
great great grandfather and our great grandfathers, and 
these are nearly all dead. Then comes Grandpa and 
Grandma, and then there are our uncles and our aunts. 
Then there is a whole string of cousins and a whole lot of 
other people, such as second cousins, and we might go on 
dividing them up until they would hardly be related to 
anybody; almost like a little colored girl, who said she 
didn’t belong to anybody. Didn’t have any name; that 
she just growed; but the best of all of these are Papa and 
Mama, and little brother, and sweet sister. Did you ever 
think of a home without any Mother in it? The most 
unhappy thought of my life is the thought of a dear 
Mother closing her eyes in death, her life and light going 
out, and leaving three or four little children to be cared 
for by some people who are neither Father or Mother to 
anyone. Sometimes hundreds of these little orphan 
children are gathered together as an old mother hen 


“Letters From Grandpa ” 


21 


gathers her little chicks under her body and wings, and 
in a home of this kind, some good people pay for all they 
eat and wear; but the Mother that once clasped them to 
her breast has gone out until they shall meet again. Yes, 
we must all die, and it is true that we will all appear 
again. There is a Hand that never tires ; it is the Hand of 
God. There is an Eye that never sleeps ; it is the Eye that 
watches every little boy and girl in all this wide world. 
If anything goes wrong with us, if we are in want or in 
trouble of any kind, the fault is with us, and not with 
God. Papa and Mama can explain to you many things 
that your hearts may not fully understand. God is all 
wise, all powerful, and all good. Still, there are some 
things that God will not do. There are many things that 
God intends for you to do; if you put your hand in the 
fire God will allow the fire to burn you. If you go to 
Grandpa’s house and eat too much of Grandma’s raisin 
pie or too many doughnuts, and you get sick, then you or 
someone else is in the fault, not God. We sometimes ask 
God to do too much for us. 

I remember a little girl who asked God to send her six 
new hats. She didn’t get any new hats, but her little dog 
Carl tore up the only hat she had. 


Grandpa. 


22 


S. Kirkpatrick 


Letter No. 8. 


Southland. 


One Little Tot and Two Little Dots: 

jJ|ib*HERE was a letter in the mail today from your 
VI Mama, in which she said the church was getting 
ready for “Children’s Day.” You just tell your 
Mama that the church ought to be ready all the time. 
When you get older, I want you to read that story in the 
Bible where five people started out in the dark, without 
any coal oil in their lamps. And then there is another 
story that ought to have been in the Good Book; it tells 
about a man with a lantern looking all around for an 
honest man. 

There was a funny thing happened today, in the street, 
right in front of our house. Some boys hitched up a dog 
and a goat to a little wagon. Now, this kind of a team 
did not match. That is one did not look very much like 
the other. I think the goat was older than the dog, be- 
cause of his beard. They had harness and bridles and 
lines on them. The boys had a whip, but they didn’t need 
a whip. The team did not seem to know what was said to 
them. The dog’s name was Tray, and the goat didn’t 
have any name at all, and if he ever had a name, he didn’t 
want anybody to know it, for he had been caught in bad 


“Letters From Grandpa ” 


23 


company. The dog went entirely too fast for the goat. 
The dog was a loper, and the Billy Goat was a pacer. 
The dog barked, but I could not hear what the goat did 
say about it ; almost sounded like swearing. The dog was 
going too fast for Billy ; so when they came to the street 
corner, the dog tried to turn alright but Billy tried his 
best to go straight on, and this didn’t last long. The 
wagon smashed into a gate that was hanging open on the 
sidewalk, and here the driver was thrown out; but it 
never hurt him until he struck the ground. Billy had 
gotten himself turned around in the harness, and seemed 
as if he wanted to go somewhere, and the dog appeared as 
if he intended going somewhere else. Just at this time 
three more dogs came along, and Billy did not seem to be 
in a very good humor about something, so he reared and 
plunged, and finally broke his bridle, and started pell mell 
down the street ; sometimes the goat was ahead, and some- 
times the dog. The goat got behind, but some way 
caught up. On turning the next corner, the wagon upset, 
and who do you think was coming up the sidewalk, just 
at this time? Well, it was Grandma, and, among other 
things, she had a basket of apples carrying along at arms 
length, and as the dog and goat passed her, the wagon 
was still coming on, and when it passed her the basket of 
apples was in the way, and now I am sure she won’t ask 
me to go to prayer meeting with her again for at least 
two weeks. 


Grandpa. 


24 


S. Kirkpatrick 


Letter No. 9. 

Three Grand Children : 


Southland. 



IXTY YEARS ago my Mother taught me these 
lines : 


Baa, baa, black sheep, have you any wool? 
Yes, my master, three bags full. 

One for my master, and one for my dame, 
And one for a little boy that lives in a lane. 


Now, I wonder what little boy the song means. It isn’t 
every little boy in the world that lives in a lane, or on a 
street, or a farm ; but every little boy wears more or less 
woolen clothes. Let us see what the poet further says 
about sheep. 

Lazy sheep pray tell me why, 

In the pleasant fields you lie. 

Eating grass and daisies white, 

From the morning ’till the night. 

Everything can something do, 

But pray what kind of use are you ? 


Nay, my little master, nay, 

Do not serve me so I pray. 

Don’t you see the wool that grows, 
On my back to make you clothes. 
(Cold, oh, very cold you’d be,) 

(If I did not give it thee) Added. 
Little master this is why, 

In the pleasant fields I lie. 


" Letters From Grandpa ” 


25 


When you come to visit Granpa, I will take you out to 
the farm. 

In a snug white-washed log cabin on the farm live 
Uncle Jack and Aunt Georgie. You will find horses and 
cows, and little calves. We call a calf Bossy. Then 
there are hogs; yes, little bits of hogs, we call them 
pigs. In the log cabin live old Uncle Jack and his 
wife, Aunt Georgie. They used to have a whole lot 
of little pickaninnies, but these children all grew up 
and moved away; so Uncle Jack and Aunt Georgie 
are living alone. These old people are black. That is, 
their skin is colored dark; some are really black, and 
their hair is so curly. Well, we call it wool in Southland. 

Every little pickaninny is a little black boy or colored 
girl. Some people say they are black because they 
didn’t obey their father and mother, and stayed out in 
the sun a long time without hats or bonnets; but I 
believe God made them so. 

I started out in this letter to tell you children some- 
thing about sheep. Aunt Georgie takes care of the 
log cabin, and Uncle Jack takes care of the sheep. I 
am sure you children will say that sheep are the 
prettiest things in the world, and this you will say of 
the little lambs — the baby sheep. Now, every little 
boy is a wriggler, but no boy can wriggle like a little 
sheep’s tail. All these little sheep get their breakfast, 
and dinner and supper just like you did when you 
were little bits of children. When Spring time comes, 
Uncle Jack gets all the sheep in a pen close by a pond, 
and catches one at a time and puts them in the pond 


26 


S. Kirkpatrick 


and gives them a bath just like Mama does you. 
It takes a whole year for wool to grow on a sheep’s 
back, and this washing is done to make the wool white 
and clean. When the sheep get dry, then Uncle Jack 
takes a big pair of scissors and cuts all the wool off ; 
and then they look so funny. The little lambs do not 
know their own Mamas, except by their talk. All 
sheep can talk sheep talk, and the little baby sheep 

seem to know what their mothers say. But what 

becomes of the wool that came from the sheep’s back? 
It goes to a great mill, and there is woven into cloth 
of many kinds and all colors, and then our Mamas 

make so many nice things for little dots like you to 

wear, and this is why God gave us so many sheep. 

Grandpa. 



Letters From Grandpa ” 


27 


Letter No. 10. 


Southland. 


Well , Tots: 

HAVE not written you anything for sometime 
*JJ about our little dog Disc. He is a real funny 
fellow, and is about as wide one way as he is 
another way. We allowed him to stay in the house one 
cold night last week, and, among other things left in the 
room with him, was a large basket of clean linen, among 
which were sheets, socks, hose, handkerchiefs, etc. Some- 
time during the night Disc upset the basket, dragged the 
contents all over the floor, and many of the things were 
more or less chewed up, and all that was not ruined had 
to be put in the wash again, and Grandma at once sent 
word to the Missionary Society that she would not be 
able to attend the regular meeting that afternoon, and 
now poor little Disc sleeps all alone in what we call the 
lumber room. 

I don’t know what will become of poor little Disc. The 
colored cook says he has more fleas on him than good 
qualities in him. This afternoon, just as Elsie the cook 
had finished a nice tray of doughnuts, and had placed 
them on the table to cool, Disc pulled and tugged at the 


28 


S. Kirkpatrick 


tablecloth until he dragged tray, doughnuts and all down 
on the dining-room floor, and now Disc will have to live 
on doughnuts for a whole week. 

Grandma vowed she would rather take care of seven 
Grandchildren, than to raise one little dog ; but when poor 
little Disc stole into the room looking as if he had been a 
bad little dog, and with seventeen shakes in every wag of 
his tail, Grandma gave up, and went and got him a dish 
of warm milk, and actually put sugar in it. I gave the 
colored cook a five-cent bale of snuff, and now she says 
upon her blessed honor, that she will never abuse poor 
little Disc again, and now that Grandma is alright, and 
Disc is alright with the cook, still I fear he is soon to have 
trouble with our eleven cats, and when they have a battle, 
and everything has an end, I will write you all about it. 

Grandpa. 



“Letters From Grandpa ” 


29 


Letter No. 11. 


Little Grand Tots: 


Southland. 


UST as I expected, little Disc has had trouble with 
511 the kittens. We undertook to feed Disc and the 
cats from the same dish. The cats did not like the 
looks of Disc. Now, Disc does not look like a cat, still he 
has four legs and four feet, two eyes, and one tail just like 
a cat; but he looks more like a little baby cub bear. Well, 
Disc went to helping himself, and in his great hurry 
picked out the biggest piece of meat on the plate. The 
old mother cat lifted her paw and gave the dog a slap on 
his ear; but Disc paid no attention to the lick as his coat 
of hair is very thick, pussy did not hurt him. Then she 
bowed her back and arched her tail, and said something 
that all the rest of the cats understood, and then about 
three stuck their claws into him at once. Disc saw at once 
that there were too many cats for one little dog, and as 
there were no other little dogs near, he got close to the 
floor, turned his head away from the cats, and put his 
paws up over his ears, as if to say, come on, and thus 
ended the first fight. When dinner came, Disc was on 
hand. The food was emptied in a large dish, but neither 
dog nor cats seemed hungry. Disc looked at the dish and 
made a move as if to help himself, when old puss raised 
her paw as if to strike; then Disc raised his paw and 


30 


S. Kirkpatrick 


ducked his head ; puss made a lick at him and he dodged 
it ; then the old mother cat gave a scream, and all at once 
every cat looked like a fighter. Disc growled, and every 
cat bent their backs almost double. Old puss then said 
something, and all at once every cat jumped at the little 
bear dog. Disc snapped and snarled ; he just bit right and 
left ; every cat was doing their very best to whip poor little 
Disc. He turned and twisted, sometimes on his back and 
then on his stomach. Sometimes he had his head in front 
and sometimes his tail. Disc got hold of one of the best 
fighters that old pussy had, and the cat cried like a little 
whipped boy. Some of the cats kept up their spite and 
spit. Cat fur and dog hair lay around in patches. Disc 
was fighting for his dinner and would not give up. The 
cats now saw that this was a lost cause, and left in a 
hurry, and now Disc and the cats eat out of the same dish, 
but Disc eats first. 

Grandpa. 



“ Letters From Grandpa ” 


31 


Letter No. 12. 


Southland. 


Grandpa's Tots: 


HAVE just returned from a great city, where there 
are many thousands of children. I saw that one- 
half of the people in this world do not know how 
the other half live, or what they have to eat. There are 
many children in this great city that never tasted sugar, 
or have ever seen anything that looked the least bit like 
Grandma’s preserves. If one of these poor children was 
offered a glass of milk, they would most likely think that 
it was some kind of medicine. In one small room away 
up stairs, I found a father and mother and seven small 
children, two of whom were sick, and the father lay on his 
dying bed; yes, dying of consumption. The oldest of 
these children, a little girl, was the only one that could in 
any way help the mother. Their mother was at work 
making overalls at three cents a pair, and coarse working 
shirts at four cents each. I learned that some of these 
poor people worked for less wages. The little girl was 
sewing on buttons. The only fuel in the room was a 
few bits of charcoal, and these were used to heat a small 
sheet iron stove on which the mother warmed her irons to 
press the overalls. 


32 


6\ Kirkpatrick 


None of these children had ever been in the country, 
did not know that there was such a thing as a cow, or 
horse, or a little pig. They had never walked on green 
grass, had never heard a wild bird sing; didn’t even know 
who lived in the room across the hall, or on either side. 
Some one had given them a Bible, and this was the only 
book in the home. There were two shapeless beds, and 
in one corner of the room was a pile of straw and some 
ragged pieces of covering. In this bed of straw and rags, 
two little boys slept at night. It was Saturday afternoon, 
and there was not a mouthful of anything to eat in the 
house. The mother said she would receive late in the day 
all that she had earned during the week; which would 
only be one dollar and forty-seven cents, and some of this, 
she said, would have to go for medicine for her sick 
husband. 

And these little children are the Grandchildren of some 
Grandpa, and to think, too, not one of them had ever had 
a pair of shoes, had never heard of a Sunday school, had 
never been told that there was a “Black man” that would 
carry bad children away. No Santa Claus had ever been 
in this home. I tried to tell them of God, and that God 
had sent me there to give each of them some money. 
Now, Children, I wish you would ask Papa to keep mis- 
sionary money for our own people, and say “Mountains 
and the Coral Strand” are a long away off. 


Grandpa. 


“Letters From Grandpa” 


33 


Letter No. 13 . 


Grand Dots: 


Southland. 


ELL, here I am again, writing a letter to 
Grandpa’s Grandchildren. This time I am 
going to write about horses. Some little girls do 
not care very much for horses, but all boys love horses 
and dogs. Long years ago I was a little boy. My Papa 
had an old-fashioned pair of leather saddlebags. My 
Father attended to a large herd of cattle, and he salted 
these cattle every week, and counted them to see if any 
had got out of the pasture. Sometimes I would ride 
behind until I would fall asleep, and then he would place 
me around in front, and hold me on his lap. At one 
time after he had emptied all the salt out of one side of 
the saddlebags, he put me in the empty bag and covered 
me up. Then he rode up in front of our home, and 
Mother came out to see her little boy; but no little boy 
could be found. It was a hot summer day, and I began 
to feel about as warm as a setting hen. Mother was 
scared ; yes, excited at the loss of her first-born little boy. 
I could see the tears streaming from her eyes, as I peeped 
through a small crack in the old saddlebags. 

Mother was crying and, at the same time, telling Father 
that he was cruel to punish her in that way. I couldn’t 
stand it a minute longer ; young as I was, I felt that a little 
fellow like me could have no better friend than Mother. 


34 


S. Kirkpatrick 


Papa saw that I had poked my head out of the bag and 
was turning the horse around, so Mother could not see 
me ; but the old Dollie mare seemed to almost understand 
the trick, and in turning around, made more of a turn 
than Papa expected, and I was brought squarely around 
in full view, and there I was right in full sight of Mama, 
sitting down in the old saddlebags, with my little black 
head just above the cover. Papa lifted me up, and I 
didn’t wait to be helped any farther, but just jumped into 
Mother’s arms. The next day Father was mowing the 
yard, and I was wearing my first pants. Down at the 
back end of the yard was a small pond of water, with a 
mud bottom. My Papa waded into it to show me that 
the water was not deep, and in this way got me to try my 
new breeches. I waded out and back again a few times 
until the water became very muddy. Finally, I fell down 
in the middle of the pond, and went clear under, and 
how much farther, I could not tell. I was not old enough 
to swim, but I was a wriggler, and I wriggled out, but 
Oh ! such a sight. I was the color of mud, and my new 
pants ! Both Father and Mother gathered me up, and I 
was put through some kind of a fresh-water scrubbing, 
and that night Mother sat up until a late hour, making me 
a new pair of pantaloons. I started out in this letter to 
write you something about horses, but I got to thinking 
of some things that happened to me when I was a little 
boy. 

I believe I am getting to be like some preachers, who 
always take a text, but never preach from it. 

Grandpa. 


“Letters From Grandpa ” 


35 


Letter No. 14 . 


Southland. 

Three Little Children with Six Bright Byes: 

« OUR PAPA writes me that he has carefully kept 
all the letters I have written you. Now, here is 
a happy thought. I’ll tell you what I am going 
to do. I’ll just keep on writing to my little Tots for 
several weeks ; yes, as long as we live, and after a while 
I will get all the letters together and have them printed in 
a pretty bound book, with Grandpa’s picture on one of its 
pages. I will get a great number of these books, and I 
will call the book, “LETTERS FROM GRANDPA;” 
and then I will offer them for sale to any little boy and 
girl in all this great country of ours. And in this way I 
hope to make many other children happy. I will try to 
make every word a sentence, and every sentence a whole 
chapter, and every letter a volume. 

I am going to write to you today about the stars. I 
was looking at them last night, and there are so many, 
oh! so very many, when there are no clouds, and this 
space above our heads is free and clear of all mist or 


36 


S. Kirkpatrick 


frost or snow or rain; then we can see more stars than 
we can count. 

When I was a little boy, I thought stars were angel 
eyes, peeping down from Heaven, to see what little boys 
and girls were doing. It wasn’t hard for me to believe 
it, and I have often since wished it were true. Stars are 
all worlds and, no doubt, very much like this world of 
ours. Some of the stars are smaller than this world, and 
some are many thousand times larger than the earth on 
which we live. If there are any people living on these 
stars, I expect our world looks like a star to them. Some 
great men say that some of these great big stars will be 
Heaven sometime. That all good people when they die 
will go to the biggest, best, and brightest stars; and bad 
people, when they die, will be sent somewhere else. I 
want all children who read my book to think of all these 
things. I am sure that all little children want to go to 
Heaven when they die, and have a home in Heaven. But 
let us stop and think a minute; let us do all we can to 
make heaven out of our home here, and then we can be in 
heaven all the time. 

Some clear night you should ask your Papa or Mama 
to show you in the heavens what is called “The Milky 
Way.” My Mother told me it was the milk-maid’s path. 
This milky way extends a long way across the heavens. 
The stars in this path are so thick and so very far away, 
that we cannot see them with the naked eye. There are 
millions of worlds in this path ; great clusters of stars so 
thick that we cannot see through them or around them, 
and it looks like a thin white strip of clouds. Men of 


Letters From Grandpa 


37 


learning, with great telescopes, tell us all about these 
things. Some of my little readers will be great men 
some day, and will learn all about the stars. 

Sometime I am going to write something about what 
little girls can do, and will stop here and there long 
enough to speak of women. 

Grandpa. 



38 


5. Kirkpatrick 


Letter No. 15. 


Southland. 

Well , Dots, here we are again: 

'"W THOUGHT Grandma’s corns were a good deal 
II better, but she got one of those funny almanacs, 
and she read so much about ills and aches and 
Vermifuge and Rheumacide, finally she decided to try a 
plaster, and I fastened it to her pleurisy side while she 
was leaning over the bed rail, and unless we can get the 
plaster off, she can never lean back or stand straight 
again. I complained a little of having a pain in my left 
arm about half way between my elbow and my right knee 
joint, and she wanted me to take some Peruna, that she 
was using for baldness, but I told her I was afraid to 
take medicine. It nearly always made me sick. My 
Mother told me when I was a little boy that the best 
medicine in the world for little children, was Catnip Tea ; 
but as I now remember I never called very much for that 
kind of tea. 

When I was a little fellow, I had two little sisters and 
three good-sized brothers, and there came a time one cold 
Winter when we had a lively time. I’ll tell you the truth 
Children, we had the scratches, and I am sure your Papa 
remembers all about when he itched a little. It wasn’t 


Letters From Grandpa 


39 


mumps nor measles we had, nor whooping cough. Well, 
our Mother tried about all the remedies found in the 
family almanac ; but that almanac didn’t know a bit more 
about the itch, than it did about the weather. So, Mother 
tried an Old Hard-Shell Baptist remedy. She got some 
poke root and boiled up enough for the whole family. I 
was the oldest, and of course the root juice was poked on 
to me first. I was determined to laugh, if I could, and 
say but little. A little brother standing by asked if it 
hurt. I grinned and said that it made me feel warm. 
His time came next, and he disrobed and boldly stepped 
into the tub ; but when the poke got fairly rooted into the 
itchy places, he commenced yelling like a big Injun, and 
at one leap jumped twice as far as a scared bull frog. He 
yelled, he screamed, and didn’t call me brother until we 
had been to Sunday school two or three times. So, after 
about ten days we all went back to school, but the health 
of the other children was not first rate. Whole families 
staid away from school for days and days; and the chil- 
dren all seemed to act so strange when I asked them 
why they hadn’t been to school. I tell you, Grandchildren, 
we had some scratchy times. 


Grandpa. 


40 


5\ Kirkpatrick 


Letter No. 16 . 


Southland. 


Grandchildren: 



INCE I have decided to have my letters in a 
book, I now feel as if I was writing to all the 
children in America. My desire is to help every 
little boy and girl to be good. If all children try — try to 
be good, and look good, and see good, and act good, then 
the world will soon be full of better men and better 
women. Before telling you something more about our 
little dog Disc, and the chickens, and Kate the pony, I 
want to tell you something funny about a man living in 
Texas. His name is Hogg. This man is not a hog; 
only they named him Hogg. I am told that he is a very 
good man, and very fond of children. I am also told that 
he has a good wife, and she too loves all little children. 
Now, if you were living on a farm you would say that 
hogs raise little pigs ; but not so in this case. This family 
of Hoggs raised four children, and Papa Hogg, and 
Mama Hogg, and Grandma and Grandpa Hogg thought 
these four children were the prettiest and sweetest little 
tots in Texas. There are three girls and one boy, and I 
know you will laugh when I tell you their names — Ima 
Hogg, Ura Hogg, Isa Hogg and Will B. Hogg. If any 


“Letters From Grandpa ” 


41 


more little Hoggs get into this family I will write you all 
about them. I was out to the farm today and I was sure 
that our old cow Cherry had found a little calf; but Old 
Jack and I could not find it. Cherry had hid her little 
baby calf in some tall, dry grass. So I called on our dog 
Disc, and said “sick ’em Disc.” And old Cherry started 
in a straight line for her baby; and sure enough, in the 
tall, dry grass we found little bossy; fast asleep. I ex- 
pect the little calf’s mother told it to stay there until she 
could look around and get something to eat. All little 
calves are like little bits of children; all fond of milk. I 
know little John would laugh if he could see a baby calf 
getting its supper. They just go about getting their 
supper almost exactly like baby children do. 

My letter is already too long, but I must tell you that 
Grandma is getting ready for your visit here this sum- 
mer; for I heard her tell the grocer this morning that 
next month three little bright-eyed Grandchildren were 
coming here from away out West, and we would need 
more eggs and lots of sugar and ginger snaps ; and just 
then, Grandma’s corns commenced to pain her, and she 
said so much about corns that the grocer sent her a small 
load of com, and now we have enough feed for Kitty 
and the chickens to last a whole month. 


Grandpa. 



42 


S. Kirkpatrick 


Letter No. 17. 


Southland. 


Sanford, Nellie, and John, and All the Rest: 

^ OUR MAMA writes some very funny things 
about you children. Little Santa, on hearing his 
Papa read my letter about our little dog Disc, 
asked him how he would like to be a good little dog like 
that. An old German saloon keeper said that his dog 
would some day be a great deal happier than his master. 
I fear I am going to fail to interest you little folks today. 
I would say something about inspiration, but it is too 
big a word to be fully understood; but I will say this 
much, with me, it means that I feel more like writing 
some days than I do at other times. When you are older 
your Papa will explain. The good men that wrote the 
Bible were inspired. That is, God told them what to 
say; and I believe that good men are still inspired. Yes- 
terday we thought that Spring had really come, as several 
song birds were singing in the large trees near our house; 
but how changed is everything today. The ground is 
covered with snow, and the white flakes are falling, Oh, 
so fast; and now, what will become of the poor little 
birds? Do you know where the little birds get their 
food in Winter? I’ll tell you. Some people say that 
they do not like weeds, but do you know, Grandchildren, 
that on these very same weeds there grows a whole lot of 
seeds, and these seeds when ripe fall to the ground, and 
the sharp little eyes of these pretty little birds just look 


Letters From Grandpa” 


43 


and scratch up the ground until they find enough seed for 
their dinner. So in this way God provides food for the 
little birds; but now that the seeds are all covered with 
snow, they will have to wait until the warm sun melts the 
snow. If you children have a microscope, and sometime 
when the snow is falling take a piece of dark paper, and 
let a snowflake fall gently on the paper, then look at this 
flake of snow through the glass you will see a great 
big house that looks like a crystal palace. 

There are a great many poor people in this world, and 
nearly all of them suffer when there is a snowstorm. 
Very few of these poor people ever have very much wood 
or fuel of any kind. Many poor children have no shoes 
and can’t go out to enjoy a sleigh ride, or to coast down a 
long hill on a hand sled, or press the snow together in 
their hands and have battles with snowballs. None of 
these little boys can go skating or rabbit hunting. 

Can you children think of some poor family living in 
your town, or in the country, and can’t you gather up 
some of your old shoes, and cast off clothing, and take 
them over to their poor home ? And if you have an old 
sled or a little wagon or a little dollie, then gather up 
all of these things, and go at once to such a home and 
make these poor children comfortable and happy, and you 
will be happier, and God’s promise to reward you will 
never fail. 

I am going to close this letter by saying : tell your Papa 
to read from that great big book what the Savior said 
about little children. 


Grandpa. 


44 


S. Kirkpatrick 


Letter No. 18 . 


Dear Chicks: 


Southland. 


WROTE you one month ago, right in the middle 
of a snowstorm, but now everything is so changed. 
^ The snow is all gone. The buds on the trees are 
spreading into leaves. The grass is fresh and green, and 
all reminds me of a little rhyme I learned at school when 
I was a little school boy. As I remember the rhyme 
ran along in this way : 


The lark is up to meet the sun, 

The bee is on the wing, 

The ant her labors have begun, 

The woods with music ring. 

I think Springtime is here, and I’ll tell you why it’s a 
sure sign. I saw Grandma in the back yard this morning 
“Bilin’ ” soap ; and then she has a sign of her own that 
she says never fails. She puts the ashes in a hopper and 
then pours water on the ashes, and when the water runs 
down through the ashes, she calls it lye, and then to test 
the strength of the lye, she puts an egg in the lye, and she 
says the egg will either sink or swim every time. I gave 
Grandma a last year’s almanac, and after reading some of 


“Letters From Grandpa” 


45 


the corn remedies, she said that the moon was alright, and 
tomorrow we will make garden. I told her it was alright 
to sow lettuce in the moon, as we would never see any- 
thing of it again ; besides I didn’t like lettuce no how. We 
sowed turnips last Fall so as to have early greens. 
Grandma decided that she would never plant potatoes in 
the dark of the moon again. We did that last year, and 
the bugs eat them all up. It just seemed as if the potato 
bugs were setting around on the fences waiting for the 
potatoes to come up, so that they could have an early 
breakfast, or a first class dinner on potato tops. 

Last year, Grandma got fooled on her radish seed — 
yes, she got fooled badly, and the man she bought the 
seed of sang in the choir. The seed came up alright and 
grew right along, but our radishes turned out to be old- 
fashioned Touch-me-not flowers, and for half the Summer 
I never could get Grandma to go to church early. She 
didn’t seem to want to go inside until the minister was 
giving out his text. I am expecting a lively time to- 
morrow making garden. 



Grandpa. 


46 


S. Kirkpatrick 


Letter No. 19. 


Southland. 


Two Grandsons and One Granddaughter : 


I ELL, we had a time making garden. I hired a 
colored man, Robb, and he played his part very 
well, for I think he robbed us of as much garden 
seed as I used to see at a County Fair when I was a boy. 

I had received a great lot of seed from the Hon. , 

a member of Congress, besides having bought several 
packages of seed from our neighbors, who also had been 
supplied from Washington, and after all these had been 
planted, Grandma concluded that she wanted another 
onion bed, and a few more radishes, and now that the 
garden seeds are all in the ground except some late 
tomato and cabbage plants, I just know I am going to 
have some argument with Grandma about setting some 
hens. She always wants to set certain hens. She says 
that certain hens are like some women, make better 
mothers than others. It never does to cross Grandma 
when it comes to setting a hen, unless I want her to stay 
home from the prayer meeting. She never goes to church 
when she is in a bad humor. Grandma always sets a hen 
after the sun goes down. She says that the little chicks 


Letters From Grandpa ” 


47 


will nearly all be roosters. She told Mrs. Davis this 
afternoon that nearly all her chickens went into the min- 
istry. 

We will expect you children here next month. I have 
told all the children in the neighborhood of your coming. 
Our little dog Disc will be glad to see you. When I have 
been away from home a day or two, and return home he 
seems so glad to see me, that in wagging his tail he 
almost lifts his hind feet off of the ground. 

Disc is boss of all the chickens; but when the little 
chicks get out of their egg shells, and their mother leads 
them out in the sunshine, then Mr. Disc will have to hunt 
a hiding place, because one old mother hen can whip 
ten dogs. 


Grandpa. 


48 


S. Kirkpatrick 


Letter No. 20. 


Southland. 


My Little Wee Small Tots : 


RANDMA has been sick for two weeks ; not bad 
sick, but just sick enough to be kept out of the 
kitchen. And our old colored cook hasn’t had any 
kind of bread but soda biscuits — equal parts of soda and 
flour. I am going to make two wishes. First, I wish 
everybody was rich. Our neighbor, McGonigle, joins me 
in this wish, and says if everybody was rich that the poor 
would be much better off. The second wish is, that all 
you people living in the North would come down South 
and stay a month or two, and then I am sure if you did 
not fall in love with the Sunny South and remain here, 
you would go back home and quit wasting sympathy on 
the black man. A great many children in the North 
never saw a black man. Now a black man is a person who 
has a black skin, and why the good Lord made him black 
I do not know. The hair on their head is not hair, it’s 
more like wool, and, Oh, so curly and nappy ! It’s hard 
for me to explain how these black people comb their heads. 
Some of them must use a currycomb. These black people 
never forget anything, because they never learn anything. 
This black race lived in a country across the great ocean 
for five thousand years, and never dug up a diamond; 


“Letters From Grandpa ” 


49 


never made a plow or a hoe, or a sail boat; never built a 
school house. A long time ago some blacks were brought 
to this country, and were settled in a northern state. 
These black people cannot stand cold weather. So they 
were sold to some men who took them down South, and 
now there are a great many of these people. Grandma’s 
Great Aunt came down here some years ago from the 
North. She staid with us eleven months. When she first 
came here, she wanted to give these black people all she 
had. She said these poor people ought to have the honey, 
and the honey was sent; but when Aunt Sallie left here, 
she said beeswax was good enough for “Niggers.” I 
may be a little bit selfish, but I wouldn’t give my three 
little blue-eyed Grandchildren for a forty acre field full 
of black pickaninnies. Aunt Sallie wanted to know why 
colored people were not all of one color. I said to her 
that the sun down here shines only in streaks. When you 
Grandchildren grow older, I will tell you more about 
colored people. 

Grandpa. 



50 


S. Kirkpatrick 


Letter No. 21. 

Southland. 

Three Little Wrigglers: 

fjtgf HE LAST that will ever be seen of some of our 
Wl garden seed was when the seed was planted in the 
ground, and now we will have to hire Robb and go 
through the robbing process again. The weather was too 
cold. Grandma decided that the sign in the moon was 
alright, and I contended that even the poor old Ground- 
hog knew more about the weather here than the man in 
the moon. I think I will stop right here and tell you 
children something about Ground-hogs. A Ground-hog 
is not exactly a hog. A hog lives on the ground, and a 
Ground-hog lives in the ground. That is he digs a hole 
in the ground when Winter comes on and he crawls in 
and stays there until the second day of February, then he 
comes out and looks around. If the sun is shining, then 
he sees his shadow. Then he goes back into his Winter 
bed, and stays there forty days. I have not seen a Ground- 
hog since I was a little boy, in the state of Ohio. I am 
sure you would know a Ground-hog if you were to see 
one, as they have a snout long and slim enough to drink 
buttermilk out of a jug. If the second day of February 
is cloudy all day, this ground animal gives up his Winter 
home, and we are allowed to think that Winter has 


Letters From Grandpa ” 


51 


ended — and if the second day of next February is a sunny 
day, there won’t be any seed planted in our garden for at 
least forty days. The moon is a long ways from the 
earth. We can always tell better how it has been, than 
how it is going to be. Did you children get any Valen- 
tines? There is one day in every year called “St. Valen- 
tine’s Day.” I don’t know who made him a Saint, or 
when he died. I will look that matter up later. It’s the 
fashion just before Valentine day, to go to the book stores 
and buy such picture valentines as you want, and mail 
them to other people. A quarrelsome neighbor of ours 
got one of those horrible picture valentines. It pictured 
him as being in his chicken yard, surrounded by a lot of 
old hens, and he looked like a bantam hen-pecked hus- 
band. Grandma got a valentine. It was a picture of an 
old lady living in a great big shoe. There was a little bit 
of poetry printed just under the picture. It said : 


There was an old lady who lived in a shoe, 

She had so many Grandchildren, she didn’t know what to do. 


I got a valentine, too. The picture showed Grandpa 
hoeing in the garden. A bear came along, and I climbed 
on top of the fence, and Grandma killed the bear; and 
when the neighbors came in I got down off the fence 
and I wasn’t altogether suited with the picture. 

Grandpa 


52 


S. Kirkpatrick 


Letter No. 22. 


Southland. 

Dear Little Toddlers: 

f OUR MAMA writes me that two of you are in the 
Kindergarten school. If any one should have 
asked me when I was a little boy anything about 
“Kidagarden,” I would have said that we had a garden 
just like other people, or else I might have taken the 
fellow for a Dutchman. I used to think that a Kinder- 
garten was a school for bad boys, but instead it is a place 
for little tots who are too small and too young to be 
placed where larger boys and girls attend. I am old now, 
and am not very well up on these baby schools, but I ex- 
pect that it pays to have somebody to take care of small 
children, and call it a “Kindergarten,” or flower garden, or 
garden of any kind. Well, now since I commenced writ- 
ing about those little schools I have just crawled back in 
my mind about sixty years, and wish I could have been 
placed in one of those garden schools. If I could com- 
jmence life over again, I would surely take in that kind of 
infant baptism. Well, I can’t help thinking about Kin- 
dergarten. I remember now that when some people build 
a house they call one room “The Nursery.” We had a 
nursery in our home when your Mama was a little girl, 
and how she and her little neighbor playmates would play 


“Letters From Grandpa " 


53 


for hours and hours, dressing dolls; playing visit and 
keep school, and then, too, I remember when they would 
go out doors and play in the sand and make mud pies, and 
all these things carry me back to boyhood days. My 
Mother used to say that girls were better than boys. I 
was a boy then, and for that reason thought boys were 
the best. I have a picture that is over fifty years old. It 
is called “Up for repairs.” It is a picture of a little boy 
who while playing, had torn the sleeve nearly off of his 
shirt. There is a little girl in this same picture, a sister, 
and she, with needle and thread, is trying to sew it up, 
and thus save poor brother from a whipping when Mama 
comes home. It was only this morning that two well- 
dressed little boys came to our back door and asked for 
something to eat. I was sure they had “snapped” school. 
That is, they had left home in the morning, and started 
in the direction of the school house, and like all bad boys 
their trick was to beg something to eat, and remain out 
of school all day, going home at night, and thus allow 
their parents to believe that they had been in the school- 
room all day. Children listen to me. Every little boy 
and girl ought to be a soldier. Now that may sound 
funny — what I mean is, let every boy and girl stand up 
and say I am going to tell the truth, I am going to do 
right. 


Grandpa. 


54 


S. Kirkpatrick 


Letter No. 23. 


Southland. 


Three Growing Children: 


♦tfT WONDER what I am going to write about this 
time ? Something that will interest Grandchildren. 

■" Some will say that most anything will interest a 
child. Granting that to be true, yet on the other hand a 
little harsh word will sometimes sadden the hopes of a 
little tiny crisp and tender heart of a child. If I ever 
promised a child of mine a whipping or punishment of 
some kind, I never failed to fulfill that promise, for by so 
doing I had their confidence, and when I promised them a 
present they never had a doubt about getting it. Since 
having decided to publish these letters in book form, I 
feel as if I ought to be talking to Father and Mother, as 
well as to be writing to children, and I feel sometimes as 
if my letters were assuming or taking on a kind of senti- 
ment beyond the comprehension of little minds. One of 
the objects in writing these letters, is to interest parents, 
as well the child who sits on Papa’s knee, or the heart of 
the little one that beats close to Mama’s only a little 
quicker. I desire to say to every Father and Mother of 
children who chance to read these letters and do not give 
out an approving response to every page, every sentence, 


Letters From Grandpa” 


55 


if they will make their objections known, and return the 
book, I will replace it with some other work, but not an 
edition of Crusoe or Bluebeard. 

We are now counting the weeks that are to pass before 
you and Mama return to the old homestead, and by and by 
we will be counting the days, and later on the hours, and 
then will come the day on which the train will arrive. 
Grandma and I will be at the station with Kitty and the 
buggy; but let me see, I wonder if the pony can haul all 
of us. There will be six of us. I’ll just tell Kitty who 
you all are, and what I want her to do, and I know she 
will do her very best. Grandma is already saving up 
eggs. I saw Jack putting up a swing in the backyard this 
morning, and I know that, that means something more 
than old folks. 

There will be much for you children to see and do. 
Some of our old hens are getting smart. In the pony’s 
pasture lot are some high weeds, and these smart old 
chickens have hid themselves in these high weeds. I 
suppose they have done so to keep us from finding their 
eggs, and when you children get here, you and Grandpa 
will start on an egg hunt, and if Grandma don’t do the 
fair thing we will get out behind the wood pile and I will 
be a boy again, just long enough to show you how I 
used to do when I was a little boy. Now, don’t worry 
Mama about the visit, but come on the fast train. 


Grandpa. 


56 


S. Kirkpatrick 


Letter No . 24. 


Southland. 

Grandpa's Grand Tots: 

^ i THOUGHT my last letter would be the last before 
*|| your visit home, but I was in Charleston, South 
Carolina, last week, and I felt that I wanted to tell 
you children some of the things I saw and heard while in 
that quiet old town. There is an old church there built 
in Seventeen hundred and fifty-three. The bricks were 
brought over from England. It is called St. George’s 
Episcopal church. The Grandfathers that built that 
church are all dead, and all their children, and many 
of their grandchildren. On one side of this old city 
is the great ocean. There is so much water in the ocean, 
and it is so wide that you can’t see the end of it. About 
two miles out from the mainland stands old Fort Sumter. 
You must ask Papa to tell you something about Sumter. 
It was here that the first gun of a great war was fired, and 
the fire of that gun fired the hearts of many thousands of 
people ; yes, even into the millions. It was a cruel, heart- 
less, needless war. Many thousands of good men were 
killed on both sides. It was all about the black man. 


“Letters From Grandpa ” 


57 


Your Grandpa was a soldier in that war. I carried a 
sword and never missed a fight or a foot race. It’s better 
to make a good run than a bad stand. I have a sword 
that I carried through all that bloody war; and I want 
this sword to be handed down from Son to Grandson and 
from Grandson to Great Grandson, and so on. Children, 
what would you think of an army of One hundred and 
fifty thousand men getting mad about a lot of black 
people, and while they were mad, just standing up and 
shooting at each other for two days and nights, until 
twenty-five thousand of them were either killed or dying? 
When you are older, I will tell you more about war. 
While in Charleston I walked down to the wharf or 
landing place where sailboats and even large ocean 
steamers come right alongside a dock, so as to allow pas- 
sengers to get on and off the vessel. 

It was here I saw an old darkie fishing with a hook and 
line. I asked this old colored man if the fishing was 
good. “No, sah,” said he, “It am not berry good;” but, 
said I, “You are catching fish.” “Yes, sah,” said he, as 
he took a large fish from his hook and threw it back into 
the water, “Dem fish am not good, Massa.” “Why not?” 
said I. The old man said: “Dey is Baptist fish.” 
“What is the matter with Baptist fish ?” said I, drawing a 
little closer to the old fisherman; and then the old black 
man said : “Dey is not good, Boss, kase dey spiles as soon 
as dey are out of de water.” Some years ago there was 
a great earthquake in this city. An earthquake is some- 
thing that causes the earth to shake and tremble, and the 
ground rocks and rolls, and sometimes houses fall to the 


58 


5. Kirkpatrick 


ground. We do not know what is away down in the 
inside of this great big world of ours ; but all these things 
remind us that there is a great power somewhere. 

I just put these things in my letter and I know you will 
not forget what I have said, and when you are older, 
there will be other books for you to read, in which many 
wonders of this and other worlds will be talked about, at 
great length. This letter is long already. 

Grandpa. 



“Letters From Grandpa” 


59 


Letter No. 25. 


Southland. 


Little Ideals: 


m 


\ AM A writes us that you all got home without a 
scratch or scar, and that is saying a good deal for 
three bright, brisk, and frisky little children. I 
am sure Papa was glad to see his little Tots again. It is 
too soon to begin talking or planning your return next 
year. A home without children is a place where two old 
people stay. Since you children left for home, I have been 
giving more attention to flowers and shade trees. Our 
trees have grown so very fast, and our flowers ; I am sure 
we have had ten thousand nasturtiums here in Southland. 

We have roses in our yards and gardens ten months 
in the year. First, in the Spring comes the Narcissus and 
the Violets, and last of all come the Chrysanthemums. I 
almost wonder sometimes if trees get tired, like little 
children. They grow so fast, I am sure that children get 
tired. It seems that two or three of our neighbors have 
little ones that never have time to get tired ; for get up as 
early as you will, you can hear them crying, and when 
night comes on their faces are so dirty ; well, I guess they 
are so dirty that they can’t shut their eyes, and just keep 
on crying. My dear old Father used to say: “All work 
and no play makes Jack a dull boy.” Now, who ever 
thought of these words first, knew what he was talking 
about. Trees grow all Summer, then they stop and rest 
all Winter long; getting ready for a new start when 


60 


S. Kirkpatrick 


Spring comes. I have seen children laugh and play all 
day. Let me see if I remember some of the games that 
were played when I was a little boy. There was tag and 
black man, base and skin the cat. There was hide and 
seek, and thimble, thimble, whose got the thimble. Yes, 
and there was marbles. Now, I don’t think so well of 
marbles. I have seen some little boys fall out, quarrel and 
almost fight about who should have the “First shoot,” or 
that Jack had not “Knuckled down,” or Billy had 
“Fudged;” but the worst thing about a game of marbles 
is, “Playing keeps;” for this is gambling, and gambling 
has ruined thousands of homes. You are too young to 
understand much about gambling ; but boys, listen to what 
Grandpa says — keep away from that “Game of keeps.” 

Gambling leads on to lying, cheating, and stealing; and 
often men who gamble, kill each other. I want to tell 
every child to tell everybody who cuts down a tree that 
another should be planted. Soon, yes, very soon, nearly 
all our beautiful trees will be gone, and then what are we 
going to do for lumber? 

Do you children weary Papa and Mama with my let- 
ters? Well, just keep on. I want older people, as well 
as children, to read my letters. There is something in 
every letter that appeals to parents as well as to children. 
God said : “Go, work in my vineyard.” We all have a 
mission to perform. My heart goes out toward the little 
ones. It’s hard to do anything with an old sinner ; get the 
children in line, and then keep them there, and thus make 
better men and nobler women. With prayers and good 
wishes. Grandpa. 


Letters From Grandpa 


61 


Letter No. 26 . 


Southland. 

Dear Little Folks: 

J T HAS been six months since our little dog Disc 
made his first bow-wow to us; but now, he is a 
great big dog, and he has learned so many funny 
tricks; he does about everything, but talk, and he makes 
noises as if trying to talk. I suppose we could call it dog 
talk. I don’t suppose he will ever learn to talk any better. 
You know that babies have their way of talking. I have 
just read such a pretty piece about a baby. I would give 
the author’s name, but none was added : 

“Are babies worth what they cost ? A man or a woman 
who would ask that question, is to be pitied. Bless their 
little hearts. The dividends they pay each day, exceed 
their cost, by as many thousand per cent as there are 
dimples in their faces, and smiles on their lips. 

“The slightest touch of a baby’s hand is ample compen- 
sation for all the pain and tears and heart aches and 
financial investments it brings. A man or woman who 
would stop to consider what the baby cost while looking 
into its eyes, or listening to its cooing, would talk through 
their noses, to save wear and tear on their teeth, or tiptoe 
down stairs to save wear on shoe heels. Are babies worth 
what they cost ? The sight of a baby’s smiling face at the 


62 


vS\ Kirkpatrick 


window can make bright and glorious the finish of a day, 
begun in mental anguish and loaded with financial diffi- 
culties. The prattling welcome at the door could no more 
be measured in dollars and cents, than the love of God 
could be measured by finite minds. 

“Are babies worth what they cost? Ask the Mother 
and Father who are weeping beside the little coffin that 
holds the mortal remains of the little one that brightened 
their home a brief span, and catch the answer in their 
broken sobs and moans. All that they have, and all that 
they ever expect to have in this world, would they give 
just to call back to life for one brief day the little one too 
soon to be consigned to the bosom of Mother Earth. 
Worth what they cost? As an investment, they cost a 
few dollars in money, and a few hours of pain and tears, 
but they return dividends of hope and love and light 
every day through the span of eternity. 

“Are babies worth what they cost? We would pity 
the babe given into the keeping of a husband and wife who 
could quit looking into its eyes, and fondling its chubby 
little form long enough to ask themselves that question. 

“As a matter of fact, we cannot believe that any real 
Father or Mother ever asked such a foolish question.” 

Grandpa. 


Note. — I am of the opinion that the above originated with “The 
Commoner.” 


“Letters From Grandpa” 


63 


Letter No. 27 . 


Southland. 

Well Dots: 

UMMER has come and gone. The chilly night 
wind and the crisp morning are reminders that 
Winter is not far off. The grain on the planta- 
tion has all been cut, threshed, and put away in the barn ; 
and the lambs have grown to be great big sheep, and they 
don’t get dinner the same way, or the same kind of sup- 
per they did when you children were here; and the little 
bossy calf — well, that calf seemed to get ashamed of 
tugging away at its Mama for milk, and now it eats grass 
and hay and fodder, just like its mother. 

Old Uncle Jack and Aunt Georgie and their six little 
black pickanninnies seem to miss you children so very 
much. Every time I see these little black kinky-headed 
darkies, they all say: “When am Missus Cootie gwine 
to fotch dem chillin back? De ’simmons all getting ripe 
and we’s sho to hab ’em sum.” I have a joke that will 
hang on to Grandma about as long as she lives. Old Aunt 
Georgie named one of these little blacks for Grandma. 
Now, it took me about four days to find out whether she 
liked it or not. When she first heard of it, she had the 
broom in her hands, and I noticed she commenced flailing 
the cats, and said something about “Niggers.” But Mrs. 
Davis happened in that evening and Grandma told her 


64 


S. Kirkpatrick 


what had happened, and Mrs. Davis said : “That is always 
a sign of good luck here in the South besides Grandma 
didn't have but one namesake, and it would not hurt to 
have two, even if one was the color of a faded out black 
dress; and the next time Uncle Jack came in with his mule 
and wagon that I gave him without the hope of reward, I 
noticed him loading up a cradle and some bundles of cast- 
off clothing. Now, Uncle Jack is a Methodist, and 
Grandma is a Baptist; and Grandma wants her little 
namesake baptized right. So, I had to make terms with 
Uncle Jack and Aunt Georgie, and they agreed that the 
little Nell should be a Baptist. I said to Uncle Jack, 
that about the only difference between the Methodists 
and Baptists was about three feet and a half of water; 
and now that all these little troubles have been fixed up, I 
notice that Grandma pays better attention to the sermons. 

Grandpa. 



“Letters From Grandpa ” 


65 


Letter No. 28 . 


Southland. 

The Children that Grandpa Writes to: 

'^^^HANKSGIVING has come and gone. We have 
ijy a new cook, and Grandma trusted her to make the 
doughnuts, and sure enough they were dough, 
and what made matters worse, the minister took dinner 
with us. Our cook is so black that a bit of charcoal 
would make a plain mark on her face. She was directed 
to prepare some tea for the occasion, and in doing so, she 
mistook sassafras bark for real tea. She was told to stuff 
and bake the turkey. She stuffed it all right, and then 
boiled it, and, to my surprise, Grandma didn’t turn her 
off until after the minister had fairly gotten out of the 
front gate. In the evening we were persuaded to attend 
services at the Salvation Army Hall. It seemed as if 
there were about as many speakers as preachers ; and sing, 
yes, everybody could sing, and did sing. There were 
twelve little children arranged to sing some special pieces, 
and among the hymns they sang was an appeal to older 
people. The title was: “Saved a poor sinner like me.” 
During the singing I noticed that several aged men wept 
bitterly. At the conclusion of the song, one of them arose 
and said: “One year ago I was in a saloon until a late 


66 


S. Kirkpatrick 


hour at night; I staggered home drunk, there to find a 
heart-broken wife and starving children. There was no 
fuel or bread in the house.” Here he paused, and after 
brushing aside the tears, he added: “Tonight I am com- 
fortably clothed and in my right mind. My home is one 
of comfort and gladness, and I thank God and the Sal- 
vation Army for it.” Once there was an old lady who 
lived all alone. She had but little to eat, and one night 
while she was praying for bread, some curious boys were 
listening, so they got a few loaves and threw them in 
through a broken window. The old lady rejoiced at the 
sight of the bread falling all around her, then thanked the 
Lord more loudly than before. Then one of the boys 
looked in at the door and said, “We brought it.” Then 
this old lady said, “I don’t care if you wicked boys did 
bring it, the Lord sent it.” Children this letter is to show 
you that much work can be performed by little Christians ; 
even to the extent of making older people ashamed of 
themselves. Then, 


Dare to do right, dare to be true, 

You have a work that no other can do. 


Grandpa. 


Letters From Grandpa ” 


67 


Letter No. 29. 


Southland. 


To Sister and Two Little Knee Breeches: 

**11 N THIS LETTER I want to say something about 
II the oldest man living. I don’t know exactly how 
old he is. Nobody knows; but he must be a very 
old fellow. He holds his age very well, as he does not 
look any older in his pictures of today than he did sixty 
years ago. I don’t think he is lazy, nor do I believe he 
can fly ; but hops around faster than a flea. He is not an 
angel, because he has no wings. It’s pretty hard to ex- 
plain just how he manages to get around so lively. Still 
he visits nearly every house and home where little chil- 
dren live. He has never been known to hurt or scare little 
children very bad. Still I thought he came out of the 
woods a time or two, when I was a little boy, and made 
motions as if he had a switch in his hand, although he 
looked a little old and out of humor, but he could walk as 
fast as I could run. I thought at one time I had seen 
him before, and I told Mother so; but she didn’t seem to 
care to talk about it, but wanted to know all about where 
I had been and what I had been doing, and just then little 
Sammy Tedrow came in and I was glad of it, but I see 
I am getting away from my story. 


68 


S. Kirkpatrick 


This old man seems to have changed his name once or 
twice. He was just called Saint Nicholas; he didn’t 
seem to like that name very well, so he called himself 
Kriss Kringle, and I don’t think he could have found an 
uglier name in the biggest book that was ever made ; but 
the name stuck to him a long time, and just how or why 
he got another name, I have never been able to find out. 
Perhaps his father or his grandfather was named “Santa 
Claus.” Well, I don’t like the name very much. My 
father used to call me his little Santa, and I am glad to 
this day that he left the “Claus” off. 

Now, I am told that Santa has been very busy of late. 
He only gets around once a year, and his visits are always 
about Christmas. He never likes children to see him 
when he comes. He somehow manages to get in after 
dark. He most always waits until nearly everybody has 
gone to bed, and then he slips quietly in, doesn’t say much, 
doesn’t intend to wake anybody up, makes little or no 
noise, never hurts or harms any one during Christmas 
time. He looks after the children first, and very often 
leaves something for Papa and Mama, and then a day or 
two after he is gone, we very seldom hear anything from 
or about him for nearly a year. 

Now, children, listen! Christmas is only two weeks 
away. Santa Claus gives out his presents as long as they 
last, and my Mother told me that he always gave to good 
children first. 


Grandpa. 


Letters From Grandpa” 


69 


Letter No. 30. 


Southland. 


Two Little Short Pants , and One Little Woman: 


ND so two of you have left the Kindergarten and 
are now in school for larger children. You are 
now in a place where your Mama will have to have 
a wax end thread to sew on buttons, for in playing “Black 
man” you will have to catch the other fellow, and pat him 
three times on the back, saying as you do : one, two, three ! 
Good black man for me ! At least, I am telling you what 
I did when I was a boy. You may think it a little strange 
that Grandpa was once a little boy. Let me tell you 
children, those of us who are older, are only grown up 
children. 

I expect you children have a lot of new games. If a 
boy or girl can play hard, then they can study well, and 
if you eat well, you ought to sleep sound. If you do all 
of these things, you will love and obey your teacher. You 
children are too small and too young to know much 
about the study of Latin. Latin is taught in some of our 
common schools and is as much out of place as a monkey 
and a hand organ would be at a Methodist love feast. 
When I was a boy I walked two miles to school, and if I 
had been compelled to study Latin, I never would have 


70 S. Kirkpatrick 

. |‘‘i' ■ ■ , " ' . . [ ' L i 1 . ■ . . . , .. fsi 1 : - ! : : 

gotten there. Latin is a language that people used to talk 
before they learned better. Still if you are going to be a 
great big preacher or teacher and want to say or write 
something sometime that very few people know anything 
about, then when you are older, it might be well enough 
to learn something about the origin of language. 

The man who shot and killed President Lincoln, ex- 
claimed as he did so : “Sic semper tyrannis.” An Irish- 
man who was in hearing observed he thought the fellow 
said, “I’m sick, send for McGinnis.” But let us return to 
the schoolroom. Just think of a man or woman who 
cannot read. Suppose a person like this was traveling, 
and should come to a guide board, such a boy or man or 
woman could not tell whether it was two or ten miles to 
the next town ; and if they chanced to meet a man in the 
road, the chances are they would hardly know whether the 
fellow was coming or going. 

When I went to school, I sat on a long bench without 
any back to it. The teacher made our pens for us out of 
goose quills. A teacher that could not make a goose- 
quill pen was too poor to own a jack knife. I do not feel 
that I have told you all about the schools in Grandpa’s 
time, so will take the matter up in another letter. 


Grandpa. 


“Letters From Grandpa 


71 


Letter No. 31 . 


Southland. 


Dear Tatties: 

CALLED my second child Tattie, but that isn’t her 



name. I have been talking with Grandma about 


^ education, and she says you can’t have too much 
of it. That there is no more risk to run in getting too 
much education than there is in buying a plain black 
dress. I can understand all she says about education, but 
she leaves me to a whole lot of guessing as to what she 
said about buying a plain black frock. It’s pretty hard 
to tell Mondays what kind of a colored dress suits best. 
There is a little lizard-shaped thing in Florida that 
naturally is a gray color; but, if you put it on a green 
piece of cloth, it will turn green, and if it is placed on a 
red garment, this little animal, called a Chameleon, will 
turn red in color. I wonder if it can be that some of our 
girls are Chameleons ? Sometimes their cheeks are almost 
as red as a paint pot, and then, again, I have noticed them 
and they looked as if they had been to a grist mill or a 
flour store; and then, a day or two later they would 
appear to have hardly any color in their faces; and it 
seems so very strange about their hair. I don’t quite un- 
derstand it. I have seen them at times wearing hair as 


72 


S. Kirkpatrick 


long as a young fellows arm, and the very next day they 
wouldn’t have enough hair on their heads to make what 
Grandma used to call spit curls. 

Even Grandma got to wearing buttoned shoes, and 
went so far as to get me a shirt open in the back, and as 
long as I wear that shirt, I feel as if I was walking back- 
wards. I never thought about it until it was too late. I 
now believe I could have put that shirt on, and walked 
into the circus backwards, and the doorkeeper would 
have thought I was coming out. I might have been able 
to get in that way, but Grandma would have had to pay 
full fare. I havn’t come to what I was going to write 
about. I had intended saying something more about 
Santa Claus. 

Grandpa. 



“ Letters From Grandpa 


73 


}} 


Letter No. 32 . 


Southland. 

Grandpa's Wrigglers: 

ni SAW Grandma this morning talking to a man that 
looked enough like Santa Claus to be old Santa 
^ himself. Let me see, how long has it been since he 
was around here before? I was away from home last 
week, and Grandma wrote me that she was expecting old 
Santa Claus most any time. 

You know Grandma never talks very much, and I 
guess that is one of the ways she has of keeping out of 
trouble. I asked Grandma how long she had known 
Santa Claus, but she wouldn’t say much about it, but 
she said he staid long enough to inquire if there were 
children at our house. She told him that our children 
were all married and gone, and then he looked as if he 
had come to the wrong house. She then told him that 
we had some Grandchildren, and then he smiled and said 
“How many?” She said, “Three.” And he wrote some- 
thing down in a book and went away. I expect it was a 
good thing Grandma was at home that morning, because 
last year a son of mine, your uncle, was missed in about 
the same way. You see it’s always best to have your 
name in the book. Now, what old Santa wrote in that 
book, Grandma was unable to find out ; but he would not 


74 


6'. Kirkpatrick 


come around with a book unless he intended doing some- 
thing. And now let me see a little further. It's only- 
one week until Christmas, and I wonder what he is going 
to give my three little Grand Tots. I tell you children 
Santa is a queer old chap, and I thought Grandma acted 
a little queer this morning while we were in the store to- 
gether. I noticed her looking at a good many things, and 
she didn’t seem to want me to do any of the looking, and 
just at this particular time she remembered having read 
in our new almanac something about a new remedy for 
chilblains, and she asked me to get her a bottle. It being 
something new I tore the wrapper off and lost it, and 
now we can’t tell whether the remedy is to be taken out- 
wardly or inwardly, and I can’t tell now whether Grand- 
ma gave some packages to Old Santa or not, but I’ll 
wait and see what your Mama says about it in her next 
letter. 

Grandpa. 



" Letters From Grandpa ” 


75 


Letter No. 33. 


To My Three Little Grandchildren: 


Southland. 


'^^p^HIS is Christmas morning, and Old Santa has 
^ \ v been here and gone. I didn’t understand why he 
left anything at our house, because there are no 
children here now, but I suppose he remembered all about 
us, when the children were at home. At any rate it ap- 
pears that he did not scratch our names out of his book, 
and he knows that I love every child in the world. What 
did you get? Well, I got a pair of suspenders, some 
socks, and Oh, so many neckties! I can now have a 
different tie for every week day, and a new one for 
Sunday. I won’t have to buy any more ties for a year, 
unless I have to go to a wedding or a funeral, and then I 
have to fix up a little just to please Grandma. Grandma 
didn’t go to prayer meeting last night. She seemed a 
little worried. I suppose she was thinking of what Old 
Santa might bring her, or possibly her mind was called 
back to her childhood days, when she was a little tiny 
girl. It seems a little strange that old folks were little 
children a long time ago; but old Santa did not fail to 
remember Grandma. In one stocking was a bottle of 
corn cure, and in the other a porous plaster. So you see 
that Old Santa knew what she needed, but these were not 
all ; in a neat box, carefully tied up, was a Graphophone. 


76 


S. Kirkpatrick 


I hardly know how to describe such a thing. It is a 
machine with a crank and a big horn. You just wind it 
up, then place something round on it, about the size of a 
dinner plate, then pull out a lever, and off it goes. It 
talks and laughs and sings. Will sing any song, hum any 
hymn, and twist any tune. I don’t think Grandma would 
trade her Graphophone for a telephone. I am sure that 
Old Santa means to be good to everybody. Still there 
are so many children in this wide, wide world of ours I 
suppose that have been neglected or forgotten, or pos- 
sibly this good old man was not able to find every little 
child, or it may be that some little children had been so 
bad that he just passed by, and never looked in at them. 

Now, children, we are commencing a New Year. Let 
us look back over the past twelve months, and see if we 
can be better than we were last year. There are so many 
good things, and nice places for children now days, and 
the school for little girls, and the Sunday school. Listen, 
Children, when you are older, you will find that the 
whole world is a schoolroom, and you will be the 
scholars. Remember that our Savior was once a little 
child, and as he grew older he became a teacher, and 
then a great preacher. Have Papa read to you what this 
Great Preacher said to a great multitude of people who 
followed Him up the sides of a great mountain, and when 
the people had all gathered together, He just preached 
and told the truth like any good man can when he will. 
Children, listen! Keep all these letters and never allow 
yourselves to get too old to read letters from — 

Grandpa. 


“Letters From Grandpa” 


77 


Letter No. 34. 


Southland. 

Grandpa's Three Grandchildren : 

HERE was a lively time near our house this 
morning. We never have much snow in South- 
land, but this Winter has been colder than usual, 
and now Springtime is almost here. There is six inches 
of snow and ice on the ground. Early this morning, it 
being Saturday, seven little boys came along, each having 
a dog and a sled. Each boy had enough rope and string 
to make some kind of harness for his dog. So every boy 
hitched his dog up to his sled, and everything appeared 
all right coming up hill ; but none of the sleds had shafts, 
so there was nothing about the sled by which the dog 
could hold back or prevent the sled running onto the dog. 
Now, there is a long slope or hill near here, and the boys 
got their dogs all ready to start down the hill at once. 
When about half way down the hill the dog that was 
ahead, tried to turn out of the way of an old colored 
woman, who was coming up the hill at the time with a 
bucket of water in each hand, and one on her head. 

The dog got out of the way of the old darkie, but the 
boy and the sled didn’t turn quite quick enough. The 
dog rolled over in the ditch, but the boy and the sled 
struck the old Auntie. Well, I can’t tell just where the 


78 


S. Kirkpatrick 


sled hit her. She was not very active, and about the shape 
of a bale of hay, and not near so good looking; but the 
boy and the sled both struck her. The boy was under- 
neath, and the sled was on top. The old lady got her 
number eleven shoes mixed up in the rope harness, and I 
will leave you to guess what became of the water from 
the three buckets. The old colored woman screamed; 
the dog howled; the boy shouted, but the worst had not 
come. There were six other boys, dogs, and sleds com- 
ing down that hill, and it seemed as if everything was 
greased for the occasion. The first dog of the six missed 
old Auntie, but the next one struck her, and the next one 
hit her. The next dog jumped over her, but the boy and 
sled plunked right into her. The next dog tried to stop 
before he reached her, and he did stop, but the boy and 
sled struck her and stopped still for about a half a 
minute. Then all the rest of the boys, dogs, and sleds 
came down the slide, and each one struck something and 
came to a standstill. Now, here was the worst mixed up 
mess I ever saw. One boy was pulled out of the pile 
with a broken nose ; one had a sprained ankle ; another a 
broken finger. Two of the sleds looked like the kindling 
wood I used to split for my Mother. As for the old 
colored woman, she rolled over in the gutter and, as she 
scrambled up the bank on the other side, she muttered 
some kind of talk that didn’t sound like she was at a camp 
meeting. The dogs by this time all got into a fight with 
each other, but someway or somehow they all managed to 
get away, but the poor old darkie lost much of her 
clothing, and a brass ring, and three teeth. There was a 


“Letters From Grandpa ” 


79 


time when such a person would bring a thousand dollars, 
but now no one would make an offer for a whole “Meet- 
ing” house full. This upsetting of the old lady and her 
water, caused by these thoughtless boys, cost her a whole 
week’s washing in the purchase of poultices and plasters. 

Now, Children, if you will go coasting, remember what 
was told some little boys who wanted to go swimming. 
They were told to hang their clothes on a hickory limb 
and not go near the water. 

Grandpa. 



80 


S. Kirkpatrick 


Letter No . 35. 


Southland. 


Little Toddlers: 




NE whole month has gone by, and not a line from 
you, your Papa or Mama. You had measles last 
year, and I suppose it will be whooping cough this 
year, but be that as it may, I do not believe in crossing 
the bridge before coming to it. I have had more or less 
contention with Grandma on this point. An old lady 
neighbor of ours says she don’t know what she will do for 
snuff next year, if the world comes to an end this year. 
And, now, that I have mentioned snuff, you Children are 
not too young to be told something about it. Snuff is 
most anything, provided there is some tobacco in it. At 
least it is something ground as fine as meal. Still, a hog 
won’t eat it, and a chicken won’t stay where it is, and a 
dog would hide under a butcher wagon rather than allow 
it to touch him. You might pass by a guano factory, or 
a saloon without knowing it ; but you would have to hold 
your breath in passing a snuff store. When I was a little 
boy, it was the custom for old men to use snuff, made 
from real tobacco. Nearly every Grandpa had a snuff- 
box, and nearly always filled with pure snuff. The old 
people, on meeting each other, would take a pinch of 


“Letters From Grandpa ” 81 

snuff and snuff it up their nose. This was a habit formed 
by these old people and snuff used by them in this way 
was a sign of friendship and good will ; but Oh, my ! here 
in Southland, men, women and children use, yes eat it. 
They do not snuff it. They use some kind of soft wood 
stick, with one end split fine like a brush. They keep one 
end of this tooth brush in the mouth for some minutes, 
then swab it in a box of ground up decayed vegetation; 
then after all have dipped their snuff stick in the “bale” 
of snuff, they apply it to their gums, and then it is worked 
and worried around until exhausted by expectoration. 
Often a great wad of this fertilizer is placed between the 
teeth, and the lower lip, and to think, too, that little 
children and young ladies, and very many, too, indulge 
in this filthy, loathsome, and unhealthy practice. 

I would rather a daughter of mine was taxed with two' 
Mother-in-laws than to become a slave to the habit of 
puddling snuff. I am nearly three score and ten, and have 
never tasted tobacco. I do not care to make a chimney 
of my nose, blowing tobacco smoke through it. I do not 
care to have anyone fill their mouth full of smoke, and 
then blow it out, and expect me to breathe it. I do not 
care to sit in a car and breathe the fumes from the offen- 
sive pipe ladened with disease and death. 



Grandpa. 


82 


Kirkpatrick 


Letter No. 36. 


Southland. 

Grandpa's Grandchildren : 

THE receipt of Mama’s letter there came relief 
|f|y to Grandma’s corns and chilblains. I wrote you 
something in my last letter about snuff puddlers, 
and now I want to say something about tobacco spitters. 
There are a great many funny things happening in this 
life. An old lady friend of ours says: “This is a queer 
world. There is always one thing happening right after 
an other.” And Grandma says : “It is a little strange that 
some people have nerve, and others have nerves.” When 
I was up North last year, I found some people who were 
still fighting the “Southern Confederacy.” And when I 
returned South, I was told that in some remote places, 
some people were knitting socks for the Rebel army. But 
I started out in this letter to talk to little people about 
tobacco. Do you little boys know that tobacco is doing 
more harm in this world than alcohol? If your Papa 
uses tobacco, just ask him why he uses the filthy stuff, and 
what good it does him. There is enough poison in one 
plug of tobacco to kill four dogs and seven cats. Three 
months ago, an old friend of ours came very near going 
blind. He went to see a great doctor in one of our large 


Letters From Grandpa ” 


83 


cities. The doctor told him that tobacco smoke had 
caused his blindness. This poor old man quit smoking, 
and kept away from others who didn’t know any better 
than to be smoking, and in less than six weeks this poor 
old man could read about as well as he ever did. 

Not long ago I saw a man in town with a load of wood. 
He sold the wood for one dollar. With this amount of 
money he bought thirty-five cents worth of whisky, he 
spent a quarter of a dollar for tobacco, twenty cents for 
four bales of snuff, and he spent ten cents for coffee, and 
the balance he paid out for corn meal. Now, here is a 
little problem for you little folks to think about. How 
much money did this man pay out for meal? Children 
hear me. Keep just as far away from whisky and tobacco 
as you possibly can. Let me tell you a story that ought 
to teach every little boy a good lesson. Once there was a 
man who gave out that he wanted a boy to drive a buggy 
team for him. There were three boys who applied for the 
place, and all appeared at once. He asked each of the 
boys how close they could drive to a deep ditch, without 
getting into it. The little fellow said he could drive 
within three feet of the ditch and not allow the buggy to 
upset. The second boy said he could drive within two 
feet of the ditch and not get in it. The third little fellow 
said : “Mr. I would keep just as far away from the ditch 
as I could.” The third boy got the job. Then why not 
keep away from anything that is bad? Away from to- 
bacco, away from snuff, and from cigarettes, away from 
strong drink. 


84 


S. Kirkpatrick 


If two boys apply to me at the same time to shine my 
shoes, I always give the work to the boy who does not 
use tobacco in any form. A man once advertised for an 
office boy. Some boys applied for the place. The man 
placed an old book on the floor, in the middle of the room. 
Six boys walked over the book. The seventh little fellow, 
on entering the room, saw the book, picked it up and laid 
it on the shelf. The seventh little boy got the place, and 
in later years, became a partner in business with the man 
who first hired him. 

Then, Children, do not forget the lessons I have told 
you. 

Grandpa. 



Letters From Grandpa ” 


85 


Letter No. 37. 


Southland. 


Well Children: 

HAVE written so much about snuff puddlers, and 



tobacco spitters, old whisky topers, and cigarette 


^ smokers, people who do not look like roses, but 
make chimneys out of their noses, who care for naught, 
and puddle the sidewalk, and Mama comes along with the 
rest of the throng, and, like the rest, she does her best to 
escape the fate of Ex-pec-to-rate. Well, I intended going 
right on, but at this point Grandma was looking over my 
shoulder, and said hold on, Grandpa, you are getting too 
political for children. I said never mind somebody will 
read these letters besides children. When I get wound 
up, right well wound up, I have to run down before I 
stop; and what is more, I never care to miss an oppor- 
tunity to fire a snap shop at the snuff puddlers, and I am 
surprised at your Mama and ten thousand other Mama’s 
and all the other women — that they do not organize un- 
der the leadership of some one of their number, and 
vigorously attack every man who would even dare to 
spit on a sidewalk. Such men ought to be compelled to 
walk in an alley or middle of the street, and thus relieve 
our wives and daughters from the use of their skirts in 


86 


S. Kirkpatrick 


sweeping and brushing the sidewalks. Now, I am sure 
you are wanting to hear something else. Springtime is 
here, and with it comes the wren, the lark, the robin, and 
many other pretty song birds. There is a pretty red- 
breasted robin that builds a nest in a small cedar tree in 
our yard every year. This old mother robin nearly 
always hatches out four or five little robins. The old 
mother feeds them with bugs and worms until they grow 
large enough to look around for themselves. I wish you 
could see these little red breasts, when they first get out 
of their nest. They just walk around as if on tiptoe. 
Their eyes are so sharp and keen that they can find the 
smallest seed, and when a fly comes near them, they just 
snap up Mr. Fly quicker than a spider. 

Children, there are a whole lot of people banded to- 
gether, called Audubon Societies. These people try to 
keep wicked boys and everybody else from killing the 
harmless birds, and there are many children who belong 
to these societies. And I want you children to join one 
of these societies. Never make any kind of an ugly noise 
at a bird, and never throw sticks or stones at them, and 
by and by some of them will get to be so tame that you 
can almost feed them out of your hand. 

There are so many pretty things now, in the sunshine 
of Springtime. And there is nothing prettier than pet 
rabbits, and these harmless animals always look so neat 
and clean. I have seen some children that never appeared 
to me to be as nice and clean as a rabbit. Rabbits have 
so many pretty colors. Some are white and gray, others 
black, some white, and some are spotted. In the Summer 


Letters From Grandpa” 


87 


time rabbits feed mostly on grass, in fact they will almost 
eat a little of everything that grows. In this respect they 
are like a Billy goat. Nearly all rabbits burrow in the 
ground, where they go to escape being caught by dogs, or 
killed by hunters. The meat of a rabbit is fairly good. 
Their skins are used for fur. When a little rabbit is born 
its mother pulls the fur from her own body, and wraps 
the little baby rabbit up in it. On our Western prairies 
these animals are called Jack Rabbits. Their ears are 
about as long as small boys legs, and about the same 
shape. I am not through with the rabbit question, but I 
will stop right here. 

Grandpa. 



S. Kirkpatrick 


Letter No. 38. 


Southland. 


Two Little Laddies and One Little Lady: 

DON’T want to discourage any little children with 



their homes, but every child ought to spend some 


^ portion of the year in the country, and Spring and 
Summer, and even Autumn is the time. I was out on one 
of my plantations yesterday. Now, I told you that Old 
Uncle Jack lives on one of these farms. I told you that 
Uncle Jack has made a fairly good start at raising his 
second family. That six little black pickaninnies were 
already in line to be clothed and fed. The oldest is a little 
girl, and the youngest is a girl, only a little smaller, 
though not much; in fact, they are all girls but one, and 
you might easily guess that this one is a little black picka- 
ninny boy. Nearly all black people like to be called col- 
ored folks. The old time darkies didn’t care much what 
they were called — just so they have plenty of hoe cake, 
peas, fat meat, sweet “Tatoes,” and ’possum. 

Now, I must tell you a ’possum story. A full-grown 
’possum is about as large as a pig at four to six weeks 
old, and if you had never seen one and didn’t know what 
you were eating, you would say it was good. A ’possum 


“Letters From Grandpa ” 


89 


is a queer looking animal. It has a long tail, and a little 
or no hair on tail or body. When about to be caught, it 
will fall down and lay perfectly quiet as if dead, and if 
you do not take it along with you, it will appear lifeless 
until you are gone, and then it will get away from the 
place pretty fast. ’Possums are caught mostly after night. 
There was an old darkie out hunting ’possum. He caught 
a very fine one, skinned and dressed it, and built up a 
fire in the woods, after night. The poor old fellow got 
tired waiting for the ’possum to be cooked “Fitten” to 
eat, so he lay down on the ground close by on some leaves 
to take a nap. By and by two other ’possum hunters came 
along, and finding the old man asleep, they took his 
’possum from the fire, then ate the whole ’possum. And 
after rubbing some ’possum grease on the old man’s 
mouth, they left the ’possum bones laying near his face, 
and then went away. After awhile the old darkie woke 
up, and I suppose feeling very hungry; and after seeing 
the ’possum bones lying near him, he stretched and 
yawned, and after licking his lips, said : “I has surely eat 
dat ’possum, but for de life of me I can’t splain why I am 
so powerful hungry!” And added that he never felt so 
“Swunck up.” 

When I was a boy I went ’possum hunting just once; 
but didn’t catch any ’possums, and I didn’t know enough 
then to buy a ’possum and carry back home to show 
Mother, like some fishermen buy fish. I was out all night, 
walked nineteen miles, fired away twenty-five cents worth 
of ammunition at a knot high up on a tree. At first I 
thought it was a ’possum, and then we called it a coon, 


90 


S. Kirkpatrick 


and the longer I looked at it, and the more I shot at it, 
the more sure I felt that it was a bear. Two of my 
Uncles were with me on this hunt, and as old as they are, 
whenever I meet them I have to tell the children all about 
our first and last ’possum hunt. I didn’t start out on that 
’possum hunt looking for bear, and after finding what 
looked like a small bear, and after shooting at it fully 
twenty times, I just kept on trying to think and wish it 
was not a bear — and it was a knot. I started to write 
about life in the country, but just happened to think about 
’possums. 

Grandpa. 



Letters From Grandpa 


91 


Letter No. 39. 


Southland. 

Dear Children: 

^ OUR MAMA’S letter brought more relief to 
WJ/ Grandma than did her cranberry corn cure. If 
some mothers can wait two weeks to hear from 
their children, that is no reason why some grandparents 
should wait a whole month without hearing from their 
grandchildren. Now, I hope Mama and Papa will be 
more thoughtful in the future. It is said that every crow 
thinks their own bird the blackest, and we think our 
Grandchildren, not the blackest, nor the whitest; but we 
do feel a good deal like other grandparents should feel, 
and my Father used to say that a wink is just as good 
as a nod. 

I wish you Children were here, so you could take a 
ride with me behind our pony Kitty. We would ride out 
to the farm. Old Jack has two mother hogs, and one of 
these mother hogs has seven little Berkshire pigs, and the 
other mother has eight little baby pigs. These little pig- 
gies get their living just about as you children did when 
you were about the same age. I suppose little pigs have 
their own way of talking, and instead of crying as chil- 
dren sometimes do, they just squeal. I know you will 


92 


S. Kirkpatrick 


laugh to see all these little bits of hogs, all getting their 
dinner at once. Sometimes they go to sleep while eating, 
and the dinner spout falls out of their mouths. Then they 
root and nozzle and grab until they catch on again. Uncle 
Jack has some ducks. Now to boys like you, I suppose 
you would take these ducks for some kind of chickens, 
but ducks are not chickens. Ducks have great wide flat 
feet, and ugly wide bills. A duck can pick up com twice 
as fast as a chicken. Some ducks have very pretty 
feathers, in fact their feathers are sometimes pulled cut, 
and some pillows are made of duck feathers. Ducks, like 
pigs, have a kind of talk of their own, and like some 
children, they all talk at once. I doubt if any of them 
know what they are saying. Roasted duck makes very 
fine eating, but I expect that chickens are better, as many 
of them enter the ministry at an early age. 

There are several springs on the farm. A spring is a 
place where the clear cool water comes right up through 
the ground; and these springs answer in place of wells. I 
am sure you would enjoy a good cold drink from a spring. 
You will always find a gourd at the spring. We use 
gourds to drink out of, instead of tin cups. I wanted to 
say something in this letter about our young chickens, but 
am called to supper. Grandma always claims that hot 
tea and rolls are never good after they are cold. 


Grandpa. 


“Letters From Grandpa ” 


93 


Letter No. 40. 


Southland. 


Dear Tots: 

CAN HARDLY realize that it has been nearly a 



whole year since you Children were here on your 


^ annual visit. I am thinking of you as having grown 
larger and myself older. I say older, but the word older 
is not an inviting theme or subject. In other words, it 
does not explain if I say I am older than you. Then even 
a child can understand; but when I say I am old, then 
very few if any can measure up to its true meaning. I 
speak of these things, because you children are putting 
away childish things, and your little minds are reaching 
out into fields of strange and greater mental activity. 

Our bodies are, as it were, a piece of machinery. An 
engine is kept in motion by the constant filling up of the 
engine with fuel and water. Our bodies require more 
than the steam engine. In addition to fuel (food) and 
water, air is also necessary to sustain life. Go with me to 
a blacksmith shop and there you will see the blacksmith 
pumping air with a bellows, and the wind from this bel- 
lows, blown directly upon some coal, causes the fire to 
burn quick and fast. We breathe air into our lungs, and 
our lungs act like the blacksmith’s bellows. Some of the 
good elements of the air thus breathed into our lungs are 
retained, and the impure is breathed out, and in this way 


94 


S. Kirkpatrick 


the lungs and heart are kept in motion, and like a piece 
of machinery, we are kept running. We go on feeding 
and drinking and heating. If we stop feeding an engine 
it will stop, and so will we. It is also true that an engine 
will get old and become so badly worn as to be useless 
and worthless; and I might say that the same thing is 
likely to happen to many of us ; but to my mind, it is more 
important that we more fully understand what we are 
living for, than to know why we live. I am of the opin- 
ion, Children, that the mind is the soul ; that the soul will 
never die, but live on and on in some world without end. 
Mind is our thoughts — what we think with, and when 
our bodies die, our minds become a soul, and there is a 
home somewhere for the soul. 

What is mind? I can explain it better in this way — 
you have a pain — you cannot see it — you cannot hear the 
pain, but you can feel it; hence, I conclude in this way, 
that although we can’t see a soul, we feel it. Still I feel 
that mind and knowledge will some day become separated 
from these physical bodies, and then go and live on for- 
ever with the Creator. It is admitted that matter such as 
make up the component parts of our bodies cannot be de- 
stroyed, but it can at least for a time be rendered useless 
and unfit for any purpose ; but no fire or sword can destroy 
the mind which in the life to come becomes a living soul. 
That we will be known in the life to come as we are known 
here. Then, if the soul is immortal and lives on forever, 
then why should our minds grow old in the short time we 
are permitted to remain in this our childhood home ? 

Grandpa. 


“Letters From Grandpa” 


95 


Letter No. 41. 


Children and Grandchildren: 


Southland. 


OR some reason, I don’t know why, but since I 
I W have written so many letters to you and Papa 
and Mama, I now feel as if I was writing to all 
the children in the world. And now that all these letters 
are to be published in a book, I feel that I am sure to be 
heard by a great many little folks, and while I am writing 
to and for little children, I feel that my letters will prove 
interesting and beneficial to all who read them. And when 
you or any other little boy or girl get one of Grandpa’s 
books, and just as soon as you can read, I want you to 
call a goodly number of your little companions together, 
have a little party (day time is best, because children like 
some older people usually get sleepy when night comes) 
and let some one of the number read at least a half dozen 


“LETTERS FROM GRANDPA.” 

This afternoon I am going to write about our chickens, 
and although we live in a city, still we have two acres of 
ground in our yard. And Disc our dog, and Kitty the 
pony, some eleven cats, and three times as many chickens, 
use about all this land. Last year I fooled Grandma by 
putting some duck eggs under one of her setting hens. 
Right away, after the little ducks had hatched out 
Grandma thought she had managed to bring out a new 


96 


S. Kirkpatrick 


breed of chickens, and she was telling our colored cook, 
when the old Auntie said, “Lor bless you, honey, dem are 
ducks.” I don’t know what kind of a trick I will play on 
Grandma this year. Grandma is older than she used to 
be, and I may grow older in body, but I intend to keep 
young in mind. This morning Grandma said she was 
getting up to turn over. I said why not be turning over 
to get up? Our first hatching of chicks came off this 
morning. There are thirteen in number. I think the old 
mother hen did pretty well. All her eggs hatched but 
two. Now, some folks don’t like the number thirteen, 
and if they should live to be fourteen years of age, they 
would try to pass over their thirteenth birthday. Our 
chicks are White Wyandottes. I suppose they are white, 
because their father and mother were white. The name 
Wyandotte is an Indian name, and why they should name 
a chicken for an Indian, I can’t imagine. Some people 
say that all the good Indians are dead, as much as to say 
that all live Indians are bad. When you are older I will 
tell you more about Indians, as I lived more or less for 
three years with these Red people, and after a few months 
I am going to offer the whole people another book of 
over five hundred pages, and full of pictures. This book 
will tell of my twenty years among the moonshiners of 
Southland. 

But to return to my chicken talk. Soon after we had 
taken the old mother hen and her chicks off the nest, and 
had placed her on the ground near a coop, our dog Disc 
came along, and the Mother of the little biddies didn’t 
like the looks of Disc very much, so she just jumped at 


Letters From Grandpa” 


97 


him feet foremost. Now, Disc is large enough to kill and 
eat two such hens, but when the old hen jumped at him, 
she spread her wings, turned her tail feathers over her 
back, and she looked about as big as a bushel basket. She 
stuck her bill right into Disc’s nose. Scratched his face 
with her claws. Disc fell over backwards, then rolled 
over a time or two, and the old hen just kept on pecking 
him. Disc said something to the hen as he left. Biddie 
then went back to her baby chicks, and called them all to 
her, and they all got under her, and she told them to 

kee P stilL Grandpa. 


Letter No. 42. 


Southland. 


Dear Grandchildren: 


i/A ESTERDAY was Easter Sunday and we had eggs 
I W and eggs. Now, Easter Sunday is not the time to 
have much fun, but the first day of April is. The 
first day of April is always called “April fool day,” or 
“All fool’s day.” And a great many people try in some 
way or other to play some kind of a trick on some one 
else. Mr. and Mrs. were visiting at our house 


98 


S. Kirkpatrick 


for a few days, and Mrs. and Grandma declared 

that nobody could fool them. So I thought up all the old 
tricks that I had played when I was a boy — that of empty- 
ing the salt cellar and filling it with meal ; putting a live 
chicken in Mother’s shoe, putting a piece of hard-fried 
beefsteak in Father’s tobacco box; and I remember once 
putting a grain or two of gunpowder in Grandfather’s 
pipe. But none of these old tricks seemed to suit, so I 
hit upon another plan. 

I gave the old darkie cook five new copper cents, and 
told her not to boil the eggs, but get a dozen or so nice 
fresh eggs, and put them in a single dish, and place the 
whole on the breakfast table. I was a little slow in 
getting seated just right at the table, and then I took some 
little time in unfolding my napkin, and getting it fixed to 
my notion around my neck; by this time Grandma had 
passed the eggs to our guests. Of course, I took off two 
and laid them beside my plate. Grandma wanted to 
remove the shells for me, but I said no, wait until all have 

been served. Mrs. said she was going to be very 

careful and not get fooled. So with an uplifted arm and 
with knife in hand she let it fall, and the egg was cut 
right in two, the contents falling and flying all over her 
plate. In the meantime her husband fell to helping himself 
to what looked like a boiled egg. Grandma noticed that 
the eggs were not well done, and said: “Try another,” 
and they did try, with the same result. Then Grandma 
proceeded to open one, and hers was no better. Then they 
all said : “Grandpa try yours.” I said, “No, I don’t want 
to be fooled.” Grandpa. 


“Letters From Grandpa " 


99 


Letter No. 43. 


Southland. 


Three Grandchildren and as many more as read 
Letters from Grandpa: 

' HERE are so many things to think about and 
write about, that I really don’t know sometimes 
where to commence, and the trouble with some 
people who write letters and even books, they don’t seem 
to know when to stop. When I was a little boy but very 
few letters were written. To live, as I do, in North 
Carolina, and you in Missouri, it would take a whole 
month for a letter to get there, and if you did not 
answer for a month then there would be but two letters 
pass in the month, and the postage was sometimes as 
high as twenty-five cents, and would take two bushels of 
wheat to pay for a single letter. Much of the mail in 
those days had to be carried on horseback hundreds of 
miles. Now, you can send a letter three thousand miles 
for two cents. I want to encourage all children to 
hasten the time when they can with pen or pencil write 
something, and then commence right away. Get a pencil 
and put something down on paper. When Papa is away 
from home for a week or two, I am sure he would be glad 
to get a letter from his little boy or girl. 


100 


S. Kirkpatrick 


I have told you something about my first pair of 
trousers. The first letter I ever wrote was about the 
time that General Scott and General Taylor and Santa 
Anna were being talked about by nearly everybody, and 
when I had finished that letter I felt as if I would be a 
general some day, too. But I have since learned that 
we can’t all be generals. In the schoolroom you may 
learn how to write, but in letter writing you will learn 
what to write. You will soon learn what word or words 
to use, in order to express a thought best. Get a pen or 
pencil and express your thoughts by writing words. A 
little practice in this way and you will soon get to be a 
first-rate letter writer, and soon you will hear some of 
your playmates say: “There is little Nell, she can just 
write the most beautiful letter you ever heard;” and 
again you will hear, “and she spells every word just like 
it is in the book.” And by a little practice, nearly every 
little school boy can stand up in the school room and 
boldly say — 

Dare to do right, dare to be true, 

I have a work that no other can do. 

Again, if you wish to commit to memory a short 
speech, or a few lines of poetry, you will find it a great 
help to write it down. As I said before, we can’t all be 
generals, neither can all be ministers of the gospel or 
doctors or lawyers. Some must work in the field, some in 
the shop, and others in the mine ; but all should do some- 
thing that will secure for them an honest living. None of 
us can afford to be lazy. If we were a honey bee, and 


“Letters From Grandpa 


10! 


would try to get our honey without helping to make it, 
all the rest of the bees would soon find it out and we 
would be put out of the bee house. 

Now, Children, don’t forget what I have said about 
letter writing. 

Grandpa. 


Letter No. 44. 


To Everybody's Grandchildren: 


Southland. 


HAVE never written anything to you children 
about singing. Now, it isn’t everybody that can 
^ sing. Some people are dumb; that is, they have 
no voice. As I said before our lungs serve as a sort of 
bellows. Air is breathed in and air is breathed out, and if 
everything about our throat is alright, we can make almost 
all manner of sounds. It is the mind coming from our 
lungs through the mouth that makes the sound of the 
human voice. It is the mind blown through a brass horn 
that makes what we call music; but if the horn is out of 
fix, then the player cannot make the sound to resemble 
what is called a musical note, and it is the same way with 
our vocal chords. If our throat has been injured in any 
way, then we are prevented in some way from talking. I 
believe that any little boy or girl can learn to sing, pro- 


102 


S. Kirkpatrick 


vided they have a voice. If a boy or girl can holloa real 
loud, or can make a loud noise on the play ground, then 
I am sure they can learn to sing. Some singers get a 
great deal of money for singing. Children, do you know 
that some people pray and don’t know it ? But if a person 
prays and doesn’t know it, their prayers don’t go higher 
than their hat bands. Praying is talking to God, and if 
you pray in earnest, and pray just as if you were talking 
with God, then God will listen to you, and if you do not 
receive all you ask for it will be because He knows best. 
A person who would ask God for a barrel of flour and a 
barrel of salt and a barrel of pepper, ought to know that 
they have asked for too much salt, and entirely too much 
pepper. The Cord knows that anybody likes a small 
amount of pepper and if He should in some way hear and 
grant your prayer, and you should get a whole barrel of 
pepper, there would not be enough pepper to go round. I 
have said that singing was praying. Now, let us see if 
there is anything else in singing. Yes, singing is prais- 
ing. In prayer we look up to God and say — 

Come thou fount of every blessing, 

Tune my heart to sing thy praise. 

And again — 

Teach me some melodious sonnet, 

Sung by flaming tongues above. 


In praise of Him we say in song — 

Praise God from whom all blessings flow. 


“ Letters From Grandpa 
And again — 


103 


All hail the power of Jesus name, 

Let angels prostrate fall, 

Bring forth the royal diadem, 

And crown Him Lord of all. 

Children, if you will even think of God, before you 
close your eyes in sleep, He will hear and know your 
thoughts. Our Savior said while on earth, “Suffer little 
children to come unto Me, and forbid them not: for of 
such is the kingdom of God.” 

Grandpa. 


Letter No. 45. 


Southland. 


Dear Children: 


^ l/A OUR Mama writes me to ask if I believe it is 
I W wrong to take or admit little children into the 
C church. That is to say, ought they to be enrolled 
as members of the church? Although I am writing to 
Grandchildren, I will answer your Mama’s letter just as I 
would write to any other mother. Yes, I would admit 
children of any age into the church. I believe it is better 
to be even born in the church, than to be born out of it. A 
man once said to me that he was a bom politician. Now, 


104 


.S'. Kirkpatrick 


you children may not know very much about politics, and 
I hope you never will. This man also said, that he was 
a self-made man. I said to him that in assuming that he 
was a self-made man, that he had relieved the good Lord 
from a grave and great responsibility, and I added 
further, that I did not think that he had finished the job. 

The politics of most men are determined at the time of 
their birth, hence, it is but natural to suppose that a 
Methodist mother will have Methodist children. The 
same can truthfully be said of every other denomination. 

Yes, it is better to have a little boy or girl in the church 
than to have to keep them out. If the church is good for 
older people, it is equally good for children. I believe in 
training up a child in the way you would have it go. The 
influence over children in all churches is for good. If a 
mother is a Baptist or a Presbyterian or a Christian, or 
what not, let such a mother gather the little ones around 
her and lead them to the church and the Sunday school. 
Some ministers of the gospel are so “Stuck up” in some 
ways, that they never notice a child until they are nearly 
grown. The greatest of all preachers took little children 
in his arms and blessed them. No person ever offended a 
mother by telling her that her child was bright or pretty. 
None of us resent flattery, and a kind word always 
catches the heart of a little child. Kind words never die. 

Father or mother, or whoever you may be, can ac- 
complish more with kind words than you can with 
switches. I have had to deal with bad men, even outlaws 
nearly all my life, and I have always been more successful 
with kind words, than I possibly could be with brickbats. 


“ Letters From Grandpa ” 


105 


Yes, gather the children into the church. The Sunday 
school is the stepping stone. Let me repeat two lines : 

’Tis education forms the common mind, 

Just as the twig is bent the tree’s inclined. 

Children, the word twig in these lines, means a little 
child. You may train a twig, or a vine to grow around a 
post or around and over the window. Just so with a little 
child. I never pass a dirty, ragged little boy or girl in 
the street without “Howdy, baby.” 

A tender plant of any kind is easily bruised, and this is 
doubly true of the hearts and minds of every little child 
in all this wide, wide world. 

Grandpa. 


Letter "No. 46. 


Southland. 


Little Christians and Older People: 


AM going to write about a matter in which all 
ought to be interested, and I am going to use some 
^ very big words. Cleanliness is next to Godliness. 
Now, let me see if I can explain the meaning of these 
two big words. Cleanliness means clean, and Godliness 
means good — clean and good. The Bible tells us of un- 
clean spirits, and ungodly persons. If there is anything in 


106 


S. Kirkpatrick 


this letter that you do not understand, I want you to ask 
your Papa or Mama to explain and make clear everything 
I say. The good man who wrote the above text, doubtless 
wanted us to understand first, that we should have clean 
faces, clean hands, and clean clothes. No teacher, male 
or female, likes to see a dirty-faced boy or girl come into 
the schoolroom. I remember when I was a little boy of 
another little boy who always came to school with a dirty 
face, and his hands looked as if water had been a stranger 
to him all his life, and his face at times was so very dirty 
that it just seemed to me that he could never shut his eyes. 
I never could sit by him, in fact, no one wanted him in 
their class, and no one would play with him, and he was 
a very bad boy. He never spoke kindly to any one of his 
schoolmates. He was an odd boy. Still, I do not believe 
now, nor did I then think that he was altogether at fault. 
He was always prompt with his lessons, and he got along 
with his studies with but little effort. I knew something 
of his parents. They, too, did not observe the first big 
word in this letter. He asked me one day why the boys 
never cared to have him in any of their games. I told him 
all about it. I said to him that his clothes were good 
enough, but his mother never seemed to wash them, that 
his hair looked ugly, because it was long and never looked 
as if it had ever been combed. He sometimes wore a 
single suspender, and sometimes none at all; would ap- 
pear in the schoolroom with a shoe on one foot, and a 
boot entirely too large for him on the other foot. But- 
tons were usually off his shirt, and he never appeared in 
the schoolroom with clean hands or face. I told him all 


“Letters From Grandpa ” 


107 


his faults. I said tell your mother that you and I are 
good friends, and tell her to wash all your clothes, patch 
all the worn places, cut your hair, and come back to 
school next Monday morning washed clean from top to 
toe, and try just as hard as you can never to say another 
ugly word to any of the boys, and soon, yes, very soon, 
you will be one of the best, and best-looking boys in the 
school. He tried hard, and he tried again, and by and by 
he succeeded, and everybody thought of poor Tom, and it 
seemed as if everybody had a kind word for him, and 
Tom took courage, and when he got clean, that made him 
good. Tom had a lovely voice, and he was soon invited 
to a place with other boys in the Episcopal choir, and the 
church people thought kindly of him, and helped him in 
many ways. So you see, dear Children, that cleanliness 
means to be clear, and Godliness means to be good; 
hence, cleanliness is next to Godliness, and the once ragged 
dirty Tom is now an honored gray-haired rector in one of 
God’s churches. 

Grandpa. 



108 


S. Kirkpatrick 


Letter No. 47. 


Southland. 

Little Soldiers: 

C HESE are the closing days of Lent, when you are 
older you will learn much about Lent. Lent 
commences forty days before Easter Sunday, and 
closes on that day. I will tell you something about Lent. 
It is a religious observance, that is to say, the Catholic 
and Episcopal church members, and some other people, 
during the Lenton period of forty days, refrain from 
eating meat. Now, I will not attempt to say that a strict 
observance of all the requirements of Lent is wholly right, 
or seriously wrong. I leave all such matters for the ap- 
proval or disapproval of the heart and conscience of the 
individual. Still to my mind, it would be difficult to ex- 
plain to a child, the necessity for doing without meat 
during Lent ; and the man who toils from early morn ’till 
late at night would require all the strong food possible. I 
had an argument with Grandma, as to who kept Lent. 
She contended that only members of certain churches 
kept Lent. I promised her a new Easter hat if I failed 
to prove that some people kept Lent, who were not mem- 
bers of any church. I said to her, don’t you remember 
that I Lent old man five dollars and he kept it. I 


“Letters From Grandpa ” 


109 


proved my case up all right, but unless I get the hat, there 
won't be anyone from our home, at church on Easter 
Sunday. 

When you children are older, I want you to take up 
the subject of Lent. It will furnish you study and inquiry 
for a whole week. There is at least one thing that I am 
sure of, and that is, the five dollars I loaned to old Mr. 

he kept what was lent, and the forty day period 

is still going on. 

You will be surprised to see our dog Disc. He is a 
great big fellow now, and when you Children come to 
spend the Summer with us, I will have him hitched up in 
harness. I don’t think he will work well with a bridle bit 
in his mouth. So when he wants to run it will be a matter 
of strength, as to who can pull hardest, Disc or the driver. 

One of our neighbors has a goat, but I don’t believe 
that you Children will like such an animal. He butts at 
one end and kicks at the other. And if you should come 
near him, well, I am sure you would not think yourself in 
a bed of tube roses or a strawberry patch. 

We will be looking for you on every day train that 
passes our door. The egg supply is still good, and 
Grandma has been reading a good deal of late in her 
new cook book. 


Grandpa. 



110 


S. Kirkpatrick 


Letter No. 48. 


Southland. 

Little Men and Small Women: 

♦IT T HARDLY seems true that you children have been 
■■ having scarlet fever. I have often been asked why 
little innocent children have to suffer pains, cuts, bruises 
and disease. Well, I can explain some things, but not 
everything. We are placed here in this life with five 
senses. There is the sense of taste, the senses of smell, of 
touch, of hearing, and the sense of sight. Now to my 
mind, there might have been to these five senses added 
two others; that of speech and brain power. The action 
of mind on the brain. However, the first five are born 
with us. The last two are acquired, or rather develop 
as we grow in size and mental activity. 

Why we see or hear or think I cannot very well ex- 
plain. It is enough for us to know that the Master 
Builder, the Great Architect, the Great Creator of all 
things has placed us above the animals, in that He has 
given us power of speech, with minds to think and to 
control our acts. It seems that all life has a sense of 
touch. I have seen certain plants that, when gently 
touched, would bend and almost wither and die. 

Voice is sound given out by reason of the operation and 
influence of the mind on the lungs — the pressure of air 
that passes over the vocal cords, situated in the throat and 


Letters From Grandpa” 


111 


neck, all the time under the control and influence of a 
mental storehouse found in the brain. And as we advance 
from babyhood to childhood, the mind grows stronger 
and our organs of speech become stronger, and, step by 
step, we learn to change our baby voice to that of speaking 
little words, and, by and by, we are able to speak many 
words. Sight, touch, and hearing are about as good in 
our babyhood as at any time during our lives. Speech 
and mind grow and develop as we grow into manhood 
and womanhood. But, why do we suffer pain? If we 
were an iron post or a stone step, or anything else having 
no life or any of the senses, we would never suffer any 
pain. Without the seven senses I have named we would 
be nothing more, and never know anything more than a 
stone step or or an iron post. We lose our eyes, injure 
our hearing, destroy our sense of smell, lose all brain 
power, and in some way lose or forget that we once 
talked ; still, we might live on and on and all the time our 
physical body would be subject to pain. When we die, six 
of our senses die, and are buried with us, but the mind, 
the brain power, the soul, never dies. It returns to its 
Creator. In some countries there are many people who do 
not know their King or ruler ; still there is a King or ruler 
somewhere, and the same can be said of a Creator. There 
is a Creator with controlling power and influence some- 
where, and that is enough to know. 

Now, Children, as to pain and disease. If we thrust 
our hand into the fire we are sure to' be burned, because 
we are alive and have the sense of touch. Through many 
generations, even ages, diseases of various kinds have de- 


112 


S. Kirkpatrick 


veloped, and for some cause have become contagious. 
That is to say, if you go where the whooping cough is, 
the chances are you too will catch the disease, and this is 
equally true of scarlet fever. 

Life is somewhat of a mystery, and we are wonderfully 
made. So, Children, let us try and be content with our 
lot. The power and influences that brought us here will 
be in control for all time to come, and none shall fail or 
come short of God’s promises if we do the right. 

Grandpa. 


Letter No. 49. 


Southland . 


To Children of All Ages: 


♦g| p AM NEVER happier than when I am writing to 
II children. The first lessons learned by a little child 
are the last ones forgotten. Few, yes, very few 
parents, realize what kind of shadows they cast around 
and about their little ones. There is nothing better or 
cheaper in this life than kind words. A frown on Papa’s 
face requires a smile from Mama to bind up and soothe 
the little wounded heart of sister or brother. We look 
carefully after the young plants in the garden, so we 
should seek earnestly and dilligently to properly train the 
little tender minds of every child placed in our care and 


“Letters From Grandpa 


113 


keeping. But let me see, I am not addressing my letter to 
children. I am talking to Fathers and Mothers, but I 
started out in these letters to interest children and parents 
alike. Long years ago, I was very desirous that our first 
baby should be a little boy. So, by and by, that first 
baby came into our household. I called her Maud, and 
there was no happier man in the neighborhood than the 
man who is now writing LETTERS FROM GRANDPA. 
And now, that you children have all had the scarlet fever, 
have whooped up the whooping cough, and have with- 
stood an attack of measles, I suppose you will wonder 
what next? 

As for myself, I have never liked medicine ; it is nearly 
all sour or bitter, and to be plain-spoken about it, I have 
always been afraid it would make me sick. Last week I 
brought home a new almanac. I said nothing about hav- 
ing the book to Grandma, but this afternoon while I was 
making some purchases at the corner grocery, Grandma 
found the new almanac, and she read it through and 
through; and she now insists that fully one-half of the 
diseases recorded there just fits her case exactly, and the 
other half seems to have been fixed to suit my ailments. 
I have gone over the list and cut out several things in my 
case, I have baldness and cold feet, freckles, and sour 
stomach. I never knew a physician to have a kind word 
for an almanac, who had ever read some other kind of a 
doctor book. Now, I am not going to write to you Chil- 
dren again for a long time. 

I have just told Grandma to ruffle and tuck up a little, 
get her smelling salts and camphor bottles filled, that as 


114 


S. Kirkpatrick 


soon as Uncle Jack could come in from the farm and 
look after the dog, pony, and the chickens we would be 
off for Missouri. 

Grandpa. 


Letter No. 50. 


Southland. 


Great and Good Grandchildren: 


W 


E ARE at home again in Southland. I wish 
more of our Northern people would come South. 
Association would prove to our Northern neigh- 
bors that all the good people in the United States do not 
live in Northland. The children of today know but little of 
the Civil War between the North and the South. For four 
long years, commencing in 1861, and ending in 1865. 
The grandfathers of today, alone, can testify as to having 
been engaged in those horrible battles. Your Grandfather 
was an eyewitness to many of these conflicts, now recorded 
in history. In these battles, in some instances, brother 
fought against brother, and sons rebelled against fathers. 
Let me speak of the battle of “Shiloh,” “Pittsburg 
Landing.” The battle commenced early on the morning 
of April 6, 1862, and lasted two days. On the night of 
the second day’s conflict, twenty-five thousand men lay on 


Letters From Grandpa ” 


115 


the battle field, either killed or wounded, and nearly all 
of this came about by reason of political quarrels. The 
South became pauperized, but have accepted the situation, 
and there are golden opportunities here, and every North- 
ern gentleman visiting the South will testify that the 
spirit of Union and one flag rules and reigns. Children, 
let me repeat we are glad to be in the Sunny South again. 
There is only one disturbing element here, and that can 
easily be defined in the inquiry — what about the Colored 
race? Our return trip was free from accident, pain or 
injury, and while I could no longer look into your bright 
faces, yet, in my fancy, I almost thought I could hear 
the childish prattle of three Grandchildren, and now the 
query is, are we to wait another six or twelve months, 
before seeing you again ? 

You Children are climbing the rugged sides of life’s 
pathway, while we have long since reached the mountain 
top, and are angling, yes, almost sliding, even gliding 
down the other side, and soon, yes, possibly very soon, we 
may be summoned to pass through the valley, the shadow 
of which is death. We are sure we are still on this side 
of the grade, and there must be another somewhere in the 
unlimited world of space. With anxious thoughts for 
you, and all other Grandchildren, I am as ever — 

Grandpa. 




116 


S. Kirkpatrick 


Letter No. 51. 


Southland. 


Two Little Kings and One Little Queen: 

** 7 f FEEL like calling every little boy and girl a King 
II or Queen. If they are not the autocrats 
of the household, they rule in our hearts. 
Thus, they are little Monarchs of the home. All 
children are not alike; some children are in some 
respects better than some other children. Is it 
because they are born better? I would not say so. 
Still, all have the impress of the Babe of Bethlehem, bom 
in a stable, because the husband could not secure shelter at 
the “Inn.” (An “Inn” of those days is now called a 
hotel). Children, would you not think it very cruel for 
a hotel keeper in these days to turn a poor man and an 
innocent woman into the street? It is claimed that this 
was done in the case of Joseph and Mary, because there 
was no room at the Inn, but there are many Grandpas of 
today who believe that Jesus’ parents were turned away 
from the inn, because they had no money, just like some 
hotel keepers of today turn away the poor. It is urged 
by these inn keepers that they cannot feed and rest all 
the tramps that come their way; but Children, all poor 


“Letters From Grandpa” 


11 7 


people are not tramps. Let me dwell, or rather talk on 
this subject a little longer. Go back with me to the little 
village of Bethlehem in a far-off country across the great 
wide ocean, and there in a stable, where horses and cattle 
fed and lay, and this at one time, over nineteen hundred 
years ago, was the home of the infant Savior of the world. 
Just because a mean hotel man would not allow these poor 
people to stay in his house — not so much as to remain 
over night. Now, this little boy Jesus did not stay in that 
old barn very long, for God had a star to come and stand 
just over that stable, and some good men saw the star, 
and came and went into the stable, and there on a pile of 
straw lay the Son of God, and these good men provided a 
better home for the Child and his parents, and He soon 
grew to be a man, a very good man. I would like to 
say much more along this line, but the subject would re- 
quire the space of a good-sized book. When about thirty- 
three years of age, some very wicked men put this Won- 
derful Man to death. He was buried, and on the third 
day an angel came down and rolled the great stone away 
from the grave, and God bade His Son to come forth, and 
He did so. And the once Babe of Bethlehem went home 
to God. The keeper of the Inn, the hotel man died, and 
now, what shall I say of Him ? If we deny Christ in this 
life, He will deny us in the life to come. 



Grandpa. 


118 


S. Kirkpatrick 


Letter No. 52. 


Southland. 


Little Dots , What Make Men and Women , when they 
grow up: 



N MY last letter, I had something to say about the 
hotel man who kept and lived in an inn in Bethle- 
hem of Judea, and this calls to memory an old 


ditty : 

There was an old lady, living under the hill ; 
If she hasn’t gone away, she lives there still. 


But I think this hotel man went out of business a long 
time ago, and think he will stay out of business a long, 
long time. 

You, no doubt, will expect to hear some of the hap- 
penings going on in the home of Grandpa ; to hear some- 
thing about Grandma and Kate. ( Kate, you know, is our 
pony mare.) And there is our dog, Disc. Disc is a 
dog now. When I first wrote you about him, he was a 
tiny fellow. Disc is a Shepherd dog, but we have no 
sheep for him to watch over, so he takes kindly to the 
chickens, unless the chickens find out the hiding place of 
some of his bones. Now, almost every little boy knows 
that dogs are very fond of eating the meat found on a 
bone, and will gnaw a bone for hours after the meat is 
all gone, and will then bury the bone in the ground, and 
will sometimes dig up the bone and chew it for hours. 


Letters From Grandpa” 


119 


Some time ago, Grandma gathered up a lot of Disc’s 
bones and placed them in the bottom of a large flower pot 
to enrich the soil, put in on top of the bones. The flower 
seeds were planted and had grown to large proportions. 
By and by, poor little Disc missed his bones, and one 
night he went about sniffing and sniffing at all possible 
hiding places for his meal of bones. One morning, as 
Grandma was making the rounds looking after the 
flowers, she found that the pot in which she had placed 
Disc’s bones had been overturned, and the bones re- 
moved to Disc’s burial ground. Grandma didn’t say 
much, but looked a whole lot. Disc was forbid the hos- 
pitality of the dining room that morning, and had to eat 
his breakfast with the cats on the back porch. 

Grandpa. 


Letter No. 53. 


Southland. 


Children of Childhood: 


k OUR PAPA’S and Mama’s letters brought relief 
to us, as we had not heard from you for nearly a 
month. Almost two years have passed since I 
addressed my first letter to two little boys and one small 
girl. So I suppose your paregoric period, once full and 
fraught with spoons and medicines and midnight squalls, 
has given place to common results generally obtained 


120 


.S'. Kirkpatrick 


from eating green apples and watermelons — but what is 
home without a baby? Still, there is another picture in 
the history of babyhood. A little coffin sitting by an 
empty cradle; little finger prints still remaining on the 
window panes. The pit a pat of tireless little feet are 
no longer heard in the corridor. The lullaby hushed. 
Sunny curls drooping over; eyelids closed forever. An 
hour of sorrow, a never-ending day of mourning. Still 
in our Father’s house are many mansions, and every child 
will be gathered there : “For of such is the kingdom of 
heaven.” I once stood beside the bed of a dying child. 
A child of two summers. With its expiring breath, there 
came a laugh. A laughter as if from childish glee, 
prompted, no doubt, by a vision of an unveiled paradise, 
and the sequel, the second story of life was unfolded ; but 
there remained the habitation of the departed soul. Two 
bloodless cheeks, and two dimpled hands lay folded across 
a motionless heart forever. 

Grandpa. 



“Letters From Grandpa ” 


121 


Letter No. 54. 


Southland. 


To all my Grandchildren: 


0 


^L,D UNCLE JACK came to town today in a one- 
horse wagon. He brought some vegetables to 
market, and among other things of interest, he 
brought his son, Remus. Now, Remus is a lad of about 
five summers. Jack left Remus in the wagon and the 
cabbages and persimmons, and went in search of a buyer. 
Before leaving, he charged Remus that he should not say 
a word to anyone while he was gone. That if he did, 
somebody would take him for a fool. Remus said, “Yas, 
sah.” After a while, a man approached the wagon and 
said, “Nigger, what is your potatoes worth?” Remus 
said nothing. The man said, “Do you want to sell your 
cabbage?” Remus sat batting his eyes like a toad in a 
rain storm, but made no reply. The man said, “You are 
a fool.” When Uncle Jack came back, Remus said, 
“Daddy, they found it out, and I never opened my mouth. 
I never said nuffin.” The vegetables were exchanged 
for some “Fat back,” some com meal, and two bales of 
snuff. The price of the snuff would have gotten Remus 
two pairs of stockings. Children, do you know that one- 
half the people in this world live on the other half? The 


122 


S. Kirkpatrick 


people do not know how the other half live. I saw a 
man today that reminded me of a picture I once saw of 
Santa Claus. Possibly it was Old Sant, himself. He 
had pencil, paper, and book, and I heard him say some- 
thing about dolls and whistles, and Oh, so many things ! 
And he said that Christmas was not more than ten weeks 
away, and away he went to another town. So, look out 
for him. I told him to remember them little Grand- 
children away out in Missouri. I will write you again in 
about a week. 

Grandpa. 


Letter No. 55. 

Southland. 

Everybody's Grandchildren: 

/- Vjf N AN OLD BOOK, entitled “The life and services 
II of Lorenzo Dow,” appear two pictures, one of 
Lorenzo and the other of Peggy, his wife. Un- 
derneath the former, there appeared these suggestive 
words — “The morning of life is gone.” Beneath the 
latter can be read, “The evening shades appear.” These 
lines present themselves to me in this letter for earnest 
thought and consideration. I am conscious of the fact 
that some portions of my letters are too far advanced to 


“Letters From Grandpa 


123 


be easily comprehended and fully understood by chil- 
dren, but these pages (soon to appear in book form) are 
intended to be read to you by your parents, and when you 
are older and have acquired the knowledge of having 
learned to read for yourselves, I will ask that you gather 
in or invite to your home the smaller children, and read 
these messages to them. Truths do not die in a single 
decade or expire within the limits of a single generation. 
And when you are old I trust you will still be found 
reading “LETTERS FROM GRANDPA.” Yes, “The 
morning of life” is almost gone with Grandpa, and “The 
evening shades” will come to all of us in due time, and 
this reminds me that Summer has gone. That the 
Autumn is far advanced, even to the approach of Winter. 
Our roses have faded and fallen. Our magnolias, the 
fragrant king of flowers, hushed into silence, to come 
again with the birth of new born Springtime. Then why 
not the young, who fall asleep in death, as well as the 
aged and infirm appear again in the order which God has 
placed us here. In our Father’s house are many mansions. 
Jesus has promised, and God will fulfill. 

Our chrysanthemum garden, under protection, is still 
lingering with us. In this show there are to be seen 
nearly all the colors of the rainbow — “The bow of prom- 
ise.” Now right here, ask your Mama to explain all 
about “The bow of promise.” In my next letter I will 
tell of my visits to the homes of some of our town people. 

Grandpa. 


124 


Kirkpatrick 


Letter No. 56. 

Three Little Hearts: 


Southland. 


{ S PROMISED in my last letter, I said I would 
write something about having visited some of our 
poor families living in our city. These visits were 
made at a time when the weather was exceedingly warm 
and sultry. In the first family visited, I found a father, 
mother and four dependent, even helpless children. The 
father lay upon a sick bed; he was battling with disease 
and death. His wages were but eighty-five cents a day, 
and in the event of a full month’s work, he would only 
receive twenty-two dollars and eighty-five cents, and of 
this three and one-half dollars went to pay the monthly 
rental of the house. Now, here was a family of six, and 
I began wondering how they could live on such scanty 
amount of means. I made some figures as to the cost 
of living — I found I had to arrange for cheap meals. So, 
I decided that a meal ought to cost at least three cents. 
Six in family, and all would consume three meals a day, 
making eighteen meals. These at three cents each would 
be fifty-four cents, or sixteen dollars and twenty-cents 
for entire month. To this I added the rent, and I found 
I only had two dollars and forty cents a month left, with 
which this father was expected to clothe his family and 
pay for medicine, and doctor bills, etc. Then I said, in the 
anguish of my heart, is it any wonder that there are So- 
cialists in the land, who not only say that “The laborer is 
worthy of his hire,” but is justly entitled to an equitable 


“Letters From Grandpa” 


125 


share and distribution of his earnings. Here was a father 
racked with pain, a wife and mother breathing a faint hope 
for the recovery of husband and father. On a cot near by 
lay a little child, half conscious, almost motionless; yes, 
this little girl lay dying. This little couch, though made 
of rags, was a royal death chamber. It was the corona- 
tion death scene of a little soul going home to God. In 
another home, I found two little children, a boy and girl 
aged four and six. Now, there are pearls to be found in 
the poorest homes. The little boy of this home was near- 
ing death’s habitation. The mother had bade farewell to 
all her dreams of hope for the recovery of her little child. 
My mind was absorbed in reverie, and as the spirit of this 
little boy was borne away, my troubled soul seemed to 
catch glimpses of the jeweled walls of “The Holy City.” 

Grandpa. 


Letter No. 57. 

To the Minds of Children and Mothers: 


Southland. 


'"Tf N MY last letter I did not finish my rambles 
11 among the homes of those described in former 
letters. In one of these squalid tenements, I found 
three ailing children. One child had the whooping cough, 
and the little fellow was whooping up things pretty 
lively. Two were aged five and seven, and were suffer- 
ing, yes, even being tortured. The mercury was boiling 
away up in the nineties. Let me tell you Children some- 
thing about the treatment of these innocent human forms. 


126 


5. Kirkpatrick 


There are some mothers in this world, who know as little 
about caring for their offspring as a Jersey cow knows of 
the art there is in catching mice. These two little sufferers 
were compelled to remain in bed. Around them was a 
four-ply garment, and besides woolen stockings, two other 
woolen garments encircled their bodies. On a shelf, in a 
corner of the little room, was a drug store in miniature. 
I said to the woman, if you don’t quit giving these chil- 
dren so much medicine, you will make them sick. She 
looked at me as if I was an intruder in the home. I begged 
her to remove the woolen stockings, and in fact all woolen 
garments, and clothe them in cotton or linen slips. The 
little fellows were begging for cold water; but no, the 
mother must first drop in a live coal of fire in the cup, 
before the parched lips of these innocent babes were al- 
lowed to drink the contents. I regret to say that there are 
hundreds of just such mothers as I have described. There 
was a time, possibly, when God in some way condoned 
such ignorance, but in my judgment, there will be more 
tolerance for some who commit greater sins, than for 
those unnatural mothers. In this letter I am trying to 
reach mothers as well as interest children. But why 
should a little child be sick? Better ask why the child is 
sick? A mother’s prayers together with the sunshine of 
paradise will not prevail unless we intelligently administer 
to the physical wants of God’s lambs, confided to our 
care. 

In the sick chamber we first seek the aid and council of 
the physician, and later the spiritual advice and adminis- 
tration of the pastor. These two great helps will go 


Letters From Grandpa ” 


127 


hand in hand all along the nigged pathway of life when 
entered into with true Christian zeal. 

If any gentle mother, after reading this letter, becomes 
offended thereat, then in such event, I will apologize by 
saying that I am in line with the views of the President 
of the United States, when he said he was opposed to race 
suicide. 

Little hearts, I will reserve the best of my “LETTERS 
FROM GRANDPA” for my next and last letter. 

Grandpa. 


m 


Letter No. 58. 

Southland. 

To Everybody’s Children: 

’ ITH THIS EFFORT closes a series of addresses 
to be known as LETTERS FROM GRANDPA, 
and the manuscript now goes to the printer for 
publication. If by incident or accident I have woven 
facts with every story, moral in every letter, an appeal 
on every page, such as will interest every parent, and 
entwine around the tender hearts of hearth and home, I 
shall not have written in vain. Children, in reading this 
book I do not expect you to go at one bound from child- 
hood to old age. As I have often repeated, “Those of us 
who are older, are at best, only grown up children.” I 
trust you will absorb some of the spirit of the writer. 
Resolve that every day of your life, you will do some 
good in the world. I will expect you to be joyful, full of 
mirth, and glee, and laughter. To be great is to be 


128 


S. Kirkpatrick 


good. After all life is much the fashion of what we 
make it. John Howard Payne is dead, but his soul is 
marching on, and his name and fame, in that beautiful 
sentiment clothed in rhyme and woven into song, will be 
sung all along down through the vista of time, “Home, 
home, sweet, sweet, home, Be it ever so humble, there’s 
no place like home.” 

As children you are advancing step by step, first baby- 
hood, then childhood. You will all have a place to fill, 
and remember that whether in private or public life, it 
costs nothing to be an honest man or true woman. 
George Washington, at one time a little boy and with his 
little hatchet in hand, made a mistake just like many other 
little boys and girls sometimes do. George cut down a 
very fine cherry tree. He did not know a cherry tree 
from a black gum, or a dogwood bush, but he proved him- 
self a little man, and told his father all about it. 

Children, I feel as if I could write on and on, but I 
must stop sometime, somewhere. Now, I must bid you 
adieu, and say Good-bye, but not forever. I have written 
to you, will you write to me ? I want to ask every child 
who reads these letters, or who hears them read, to 
write, or have some one to write for you. Tell me in 
your own way who you are, what you are, what you 
are doing. Tell me what you think of LETTERS FROM 
GRANDPA, and after a while, I will arrange all your 
letters and have them published in a neat little book 
entitled “Letters to Grandpa.” 

And now, dear Children, I bid each and everyone of 
you a Grandpa’s greeting and an affectionate farewell. 

Grandpa. 



















